


Divergent Horizons

by Xela



Series: Haven Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abuse (non-graphic/mentioned), Explicit Language, M/M, Original Character(s), Psychic Abilities, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been 17 years since Sam left for Stanford. Left, came back, fell in love and found his Happily Every After with Dean and a little girl named Mer in a small town in Iowa.</p><p>Happily Ever After is harder than it looks.</p><p>Sam's struggling with a darkness he can feel growing in himself. Dean's trapped between two impossible forces—Sam and his daughter. And everywhere around them eyes are always watching, because not even the Winchesters can outrun destiny.</p><p><i>"We all live under the same sky, but we don't all have the same horizon" - Konrad Adenauer</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The art was done by luxpermanet and you may leave her a comment [here!](http://luxpermanet.livejournal.com/3177.html)
> 
> Mer-bear is Mer; Mer Bear is Mer's stuffed bear she's had since she was very tiny (so named because every time someone tried to take it she'd hug it fiercely and say “Mer Bear!”)

 

 _Sam can't close his eyes in his dreams. Can't choose not to watch Mer hold a knife to Dean's throat as Dean's blood spreads rapidly across the floor. Despair, helplessness and anger wash over him. Dean's breathing turns harsh and difficult. Mer turns towards him, the hints of a smile already on her face. The knife at Dean's throat twitches._

 _"DEAN!" Sam lunges forward, only to be stopped by an invisible barrier that keeps him stationary. He throws everything he has at it, but it won't move. "Dean!"_

 _"God, it's like you're not even trying, Uncle Sam." Mer appears to his right, eating a cheeseburger as she watches her father bleed out on the floor, her mirror image kneeling in Dean's blood. "Seriously, pathetic."_

 _"Why?" Sam pleads, reaching fruitlessly towards Dean. Sam could save him, if he could just reach... "Why are you doing this?"_

 _"Well," Mer says slowly, tasting the words. She turns towards him and her eyes glow yellow. "Sometimes we have to sacrifice to get what we want." The words send a cold chill down Sam's spine. Mer turns back to Dean's death scene, shrugs, and stuffs her mouth full of burger._

 _Sam sinks to his knees and the pool of blood reaches him, stains his jeans. Dean's eyes are vacant in death._

 __You could save him. _It's not Mer beside him anymore. It's...him. But not. But it is. He's darker, more dangerous. Powerful. His mirror image looks at him and Sam feels hollowed out. He has no secrets here._

 __You can save him, _the shadowy version of himself whispers._ Let me help you. _It comes closer and all Sam can see is the spreading pool of blood under his brother, the weakening pulse of his heart. He_ can _save Dean. He can feel the power waiting. All he has to do is accept it._

 _"Uncle Sam," Mer drawls from beside Dean, gun trained steadily on him. Her smile seems to get colder every time. The knife at Dean's throat gleams. Sam realizes then that he can't save her. But he can save Dean. Sam turns to the shadow and—_

"WAKE UP!" Sam bolts upright, heart pounding. His mind swims with the dream and it takes him a moment to register Dean, alive and unharmed. And laughing uproariously.

"Dean!" Sam's ear hurts.

"Dude, you should see your face. Come on, Professor," Dean laughs, slapping Sam on the back. Shit, that stings. "You have class today." With his bachelor's from Stanford and a little computer hackery, Sam has a job at the local community college. He augments his teacher's salary by editing and contributing to several journals and publications around the country. They also have a pretty lucrative side business selling hunting gear, but that income never seems to make it onto their taxes.

"DAD! YOU DID **NOT** MAKE ME PEANUT BUTTER JELLY!" Mer's incensed voice makes Sam clench his jaw so hard he gives himself a headache. He can hear her stomping around the kitchen. "I HATE PB-N-J! AND I'M NOT TWELVE EITHER!"

"YOU'RE WELCOME TO MAKE YOURSELF LUNCH, BRAT!" Dean yells back, rolling his eyes. Sam uses his distraction to pull Dean down on the bed and wrap him in a bear hug, rubbing his nose against Dean's neck.

"What the fuck, Sammy, get off me!" Dean protests, but he's laughing and his hands roam across Sam's back encouragingly. Sam keeps kissing him until Dean gives in and kisses back, arms wrapped securely around Sam. Dean wears domesticity well. According to Whit it had taken a few years to get him into it, to calm him down and really think of this place as home, but once he had...Sam's still startled sometimes by Dean's openness in this house.

Sam licks his way into Dean's mouth and slides his hands down to cup an ass still firm after all these years. He hitches Dean's leg up around his hips, presses up so they both gasp at the pressure.

"Oh—seriously, you guys? This is going on my therapy bill!" Sam groans and buries his face in the curve of Dean's neck. He really can't deal with Mer and a raging hard-on right now. He only has the faculties to deal with one inconvenience at a time, which may actually be a good thing.

"You could always knock," Dean says snidely, making a production of pressing a wet, loud kiss to Sam's lips. Mer makes a singularly disgusted sound that cracks them both up even as they try to hide their reactions.

"Gross. I have never wanted to go to school so bad in my life!" Mer huffs, but there's something warm and happy underneath her words. "But we really do need to talk about this peanut butter jelly BS, Dad. It's totes unacceptable." Dean's eyes squint—Sam notices his crow's feet are a little deeper and don't really disappear these days—and his nostrils flare. He really, really, really loathes the word 'totes.' Sam feels Mer's gleeful amusement at her father's predictable reaction and his lips twitch up in response; he quickly schools his face into a neutral expression before Dean catches him.

"Losechesters! You had _all_ better be up and about or I'm going on the war path!" Whit's voice calls from the kitchen. Dean smells pancakes and bacon and his stomach rumbles. "And I'll let Damien eat your breakfast!"

"WHIT!" Mer yells, excited at the prospect of having another person on her side. She sprints out of the room without a backwards glance. "DAD MADE ME PB-N-J! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!"

"You poor, miserable thing. How ever will you deal?" comes Whit's sarcastic reply. Their voices fade to a more intimate level as they tuck into whatever food Whit brought over. Damien's low rumble joins them soon after. Ah, the sounds of domesticity.

"Garage day?" Sam asks softly, breathing in Dean's scent. It soothes the disquiet, chases away the lingering remnants of his nightmare. Dean starts rubbing soft circles along Sam's shoulders, coaxing him to relax. He long ago stopped asking what Sam dreams about, but he always knows when they're bad.

"Yep. Got a couple of young bucks stopping by later too," Dean murmurs, settling into Sam's embrace. He radiates quiet, soothing contentment.

"Young bucks? Are you going to start calling people idjits too?" Sam teases, nipping at Dean's ear.

"I—"

"DEAN! SAM! BREAKFAST. NOW!"

"The banshee calleth," Dean groans. "Doesn't she have her own house?" He heaves himself up and off the bed looking put-upon and irritated. And not a little bit rumpled. Sam stretches and grins at how Dean watches the slide of the blankets down his chest. It takes a little longer in the gym these days, but it's totally worth it to see that look on Dean's face.

"You sure you wanna go today?" Sam asks innocently. He walks his fingers down his chest. "It's Friday. I could make skipping worth your while..." His hand disappears underneath the cruelly situated blanket blocking Dean's view.

"Jesus fuck," Dean breathes, eyes glazing over.

"LAST WARNING!" Whit's screech jars Dean out of his Sam-induced stupor. Sam pulls a pillow over his face and screams his frustration into it.

"WE'RE COMING YOU FUCKING HARPY!" Dean yells downstairs, supremely annoyed. "Sorry, buddy. Maybe later," he directs towards his crotch. Sam snorts and flings the pillow at Dean.

"FUCKING WATCH YOUR GODDAMNED SHIT-TASTIC LANGUAGE, DEANY-WEENEY!" Whit fires back.

"YOU CAN KISS MY ASS, YOU SOUL-SUCKING HELL BITCH!"

"THANK YOU ALL FOR DONATING GENEROUSLY TO THE MARY WINCHESTER COLLEGE FUND!" Mer hollers, putting an abrupt end to the Whit/Dean death match of doom. Sam starts laughing—Mer's swear jar is actually a bank account opened years ago with a lot of money in it, mostly courtesy of Dean—and Dean whips the pillow back at him. Sam flails and splutters, searching around for ammunition but Dean darts away calling over his shoulder, "Come on, Sammy, pancakes!"

"I'm out, see you later!" Mer calls as she sweeps through the room.

"Freeze!"

"Damn it, Bob," Mer grumbles, glaring at the door. So close to freedom. She makes sure her parents can't miss how irritated she is with them, projecting it forward and ignoring the little flair of guilt when her dad flinches. If he wasn't so _unreasonable..._

"Where are you going?" Dean asks, keeping his voice as calm and non-combative as possible.

"Where do I always go?" Mer demands, turning to face her parents, sneer firmly in place. "The Tree. Do you seriously have to ask _every time_?" Dean ignores her brittle tone.

"Who's going with you?"

"Dad."

"Mer."

"Oh my God, are you joking?" Dean keeps his face blank and expectant. He's got this whole parent thing down so good. Mer rolls her eyes and rattles off in annoyed teenager monotone, "Viv, Jer, Lissa, Dane, Max, half the entire high school, some college freshmen I plan to have hot monkey sex with in Farmer Grodin's corn field..." Dean ignores the last bit. Mer's friends would hardly appreciate it if he showed up at their favorite hangout with two shotguns, a Ruger, and enough C4 to turn the entire clearing into a smoking crater.

"Finn?" Dean asks as nonchalantly as possible. Mer looks derisively confused, which Dean has to admit is a pretty impressive expression.

"Ye-ah," she drawls. _You're an idiot_ couldn't have been clearer if she'd actually said the words. "I'm driving. Why?"

"No reason," Dean says mildly. "Have fun. Don't do anything stupid." Mer stares at him for a second before rolling her eyes at some internal conversation and shaking her head.

"Whatever. I have my phone." Dean opens his mouth but Mer beats him to the punch: "And my knife. And my spare knife. And there's a Glock and three clips hidden underneath my seat. I'll be _fine."_ The door closes loudly behind her.

"Of course you will," Dean mutters. He may have a handle on dealing with his kid (an assumption that varies from day to day), but he still hasn't figured out how to deal with her gradual pulling away, not knowing where she is and how she's doing every minute of the day as she keeps her cards closer to her chest. The general knot of her emotions at the back of his head isn't the same; he got used to being able to check in on her when she was younger, and now it feels like he's losing her, like she's growing up and growing away. It happens to all teenagers, Whit assures him, but it's hard. And he can't even talk to Sam about it because _he_ closes up like a clam whenever Mer's so much as mentioned.

Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. The tension simmering between the two of them is hard to bear. School ends for the summer next week. Dean doesn't want to think about all the time Mer and Sam will be spending around each other and how long it's going to take for them to start trying to kill one another. But that's next week's problem; for now, they've got the house to themselves.

Dean flops down on the couch and shoves his feet in Sam's lap, mindful of the book Sam's reading. He manages to send it skittering just out of convenient reach. Dean awards himself two points, and a bonus for the way Sam glares at his empty hands.

"Rub my feet," Dean commands, kicking Sam in the ribs.

"What's the magic word?" Sam says in his snidest tone. Dean can see him debating whether or not to levitate the book into his hands with his freaky mind powers.

"How could I forget? Rub my feet, _bitch._ " Sam's eyes narrow and Dean smiles lazily at him. Dean can taste the flavor of Sam's thoughts, and he likes the direction they're going. A lot.

He's pleasantly surprised when Sam smiles and presses his thumb into the arch of one foot, rubbing away the tension there. His other hand lazily strokes an ankle, tracing the delicate bones. Dean relaxes into the soothing rhythm, letting his worries about Mer recede. He hadn't expected Sam to be accommodating, but it's nice. He'd broken his foot a few years ago on a hunt and now it aches at the most random times. Dean lets the bliss of Sam's massage lull him into a wonderful half-sleep.

Which is why Dean's justifiably unprepared when Sam's hands shift to wrap around his ankles and he's summarily yanked down the couch.

"What the—Sam!" Dean objects, struggling even though he's well and truly caught. Sam smirks at him, stupid hair flopping down into his face.

"My bitch," Sam growls playfully and latches onto Dean's neck. He practically folds Dean in half, pushing his legs up and apart. His hips settle against Dean, cock already hard. Dean's quick to join the party, arching and rubbing against Sam as much as he can—which isn't much. His earlier lassitude is barely a memory, replaced by want burning in his veins.

Sam sucks a hickey into the smooth skin of Dean's neck. It's one of Dean's hotspots and it never fails to drive him wild.

Dean resists as much as he can, 'cause he likes Sam to work for it, but Sam knows all his weaknesses. He can make Dean come in under five minutes if he tries. That's a well-proven, scientific fact. Sam bends his head and teases one of Dean's nipples through his shirt, until the light blue turns dark and see-through. Sam pulls away and can just make out their shape, peaked and hard.

"Mine," Sam whispers in Dean's ear. He bites down on the lobe, pulling it between his teeth. Dean swears and clings to Sam. His fingers tangle in the thin material of Sam's shirt, well-worn and threadbare. His possessive desire dances over Dean's skin, sinks into him like claws and takes root, a primal urge that surges from the most primitive corners of Sam's being. Dean shudders and gives himself over, lets Sam crawl inside him.

It's like live wires lit inside their head. Sam thinks about moving, about sliding into Dean, and they both feel it. Sam's arousal wraps around Dean's, twines together, and it's like even the act of breathing is so erotic that one deep breath will make them come. Dean drags his foot over Sam's calf and he feels the way his touch zips up Sam's nerves and straight to the pleasure center of his brain.

"Mine," Dean returns, speaking the words against Sam's collarbone. The vibrations of his chest and the heat of his breath tickle over Sam's skin, sends the mental link between them singing. Sam moans and presses down against Dean, his erection sliding against Dean's hip.

"You're a fuckin' tease," Dean grunts, arching up into Sam. "Wanted it this morning. You touching yourself—wanted to say fuck the garage and fuck your class and fuck _you_. Push the stupid, cockblock covers on the floor and taste you, then flip you over and—"

Sam claims Dean's mouth in a brutal, demanding kiss. He takes Dean's words and sends them back as pictures, the two of them on their bed, morning light filtering through. Dean doing just what he said, _taking_ what he wants. Hard, fast, and ruthless. Sam growls low in his throat and curls his fingers around their cocks. He crawls into the crevasses of Dean's mind and hits his pleasure center.

"Fu—SAM!" Dean's orgasm flairs between them, a riot of color-sensation.

 _Incandescent,_ Sam thinks as he hurtles towards his own release. It almost feels secondary to the sharpness of Dean's pleasure.

"Is guna-ha," Dean says much later. Sam laughs against his shoulder, hair tickling Dean's chin. He's content here, wrapped in Sammy's arms, pressed together, surrounded by the sound of their hearts beating in time, slow and even.

"Know the best part?" Sam murmurs, well-versed in translating Dean's post-coital language. Dean grunts, eyes sliding closed. "She's gone for at least another three hours." Dean's eyes fly open and he grins.

"You are the worst teenager that ever lived!" Finn wails despondently. "You're a horrible person. You're killing me. _Killing me._ On my tombstone, please write 'Here lies Finn, who tragically died of no social life, blame Mary Winchester. She is a horrible no good very bad person.'"

"Please, just because I don't feel like chauffeuring you to the bonfire tonight does not make me—"

"It does! It absolutely does! Mer, Mary, Mary-Mer, best friend in ever, if I had a car I wouldn't hesitate to pick you up. I would drive to the ends of the Earth to take you out on the town. Because that's what friends do!"

"You used to have a car. Remember what happened to it?" Mer asks, sounding smug and superior.

"I still maintain that tree struck my car with malicious intent and the road did not need to curve that quickly."

"A tree never hits a car except in self defense."

"Friends don't let friends stay at home on a Friday night!" Finn yells into the phone, flopping down on his bed. "Am I going to have to get a new best friend?"

"Friends don't try to guilt trip friends when they don't feel like doing something!"

"That...that is a blatant lie. Our entire relationship is one giant guilt trip. Speaking of, you owe me for that time with the My Little Pony."

"Good night, Finn."

"MARY LUELLEN WINCHESTER THE ONLY!"

"Luellen?" Mer asks deadpan, rolling her eyes.

"You are seventeen years old. You are in the prime of your life. You owe it to God, the Winchester name, your hormones and the slinky black underwear you say you don't have to go out tonight! Do not let me down! SUIT UP, WOMAN."

"Finnigan."

"Yes?"

"Thirty seconds or the train is leaving. One...two...three..."

"SONOFA—YOU BITCH!" Mer cackles gleefully and tosses her phone in the center console. It takes Finn less than ten second to get from his room, down the stairs, and out the door. He's panting and flushed by the time he throws himself into the passenger seat, hair a little wild. "You're really not as funny as you think you are."

"I am _exactly_ as funny as I think I am!" Mer laughs, and floors it. Finn swears as the force pins him back against the seat. This is why he always drives: Mer drives like a maniac.

\---

"God, this is just..." Mer trails off, searching for the right word. She shakes her head in dismay and sips her rapidly warming beer. There are about thirty kids at the Tree, a bonfire blazing merrily in the center of their gathering. They have their cliques and clumps, though there's mingling at the drinks area. But the main attraction is happening right around the fire where two different couples have set up camp.

"Tragic?" Viv offers, making a disgusted face as she watches Jer slip his hand down the curve of Lena McInty's ass. He "casually" glances over his shoulder towards where Lissa laughs loudly at something Max Whigham didn't say.

"Amusing!" Dane counters, sticking his tongue out at Viv when she swipes at him, a task made more difficult as Chelsea's sitting between them.

"Hey!" Chelsea protests. Viv's attack upsets her wine cooler and the liquid sloshes over the side. "Watch the pants! Watch the fuckin' pants!"

"...pathetic," Mer settles on, ignoring her friend's antics as her eyes jump from Lissa and Jer standing on opposite sides of the fire with their various entourages in tow. Lissa is hurt and frustrated and confused. Jer is confused and hurt and frustrated. They're both pining for each other and Mer is about two minutes away from bashing their stupid little heads together, but Missouri had told her relationships form in their own ways for their own reasons in their own time and too much meddling can be detrimental. Mer isn't quite sold on that theory. And she's not sure the constant headaches their angst-tastic emotions give her are worth it. Or listening to Lissa bitch about who Jer's been fucking at college.

A pleasurable, boneless lassitude hits Mer's senses and she winces, wishing once again that she was less familiar with Finn's extracurricular exploits. Moments later Finn materializes from the darkness and slides onto the bench of their picnic table with careful drunkenness.

"What's going on, what'd'I miss?" Finn asks. His hair is even messier than usual and he moves with a languidness they've all come to associate with Finn just getting laid. Sure enough, Dana Mendoza ambles out of the darkness looking flushed and pleased with herself, cheeks a little red. Mer reaches out and feels satisfaction and a lingering pulse of pleasure that makes her blush. Mer has no idea why she does it, but chalks it up to morbid, perverse curiosity about her best friend. Finn watches Dana cross the grounds, a smug smirk on his face and self-satisfaction radiating from him like the sun. Mer flicks him in the ear.

"Hey!" Finn protests, glaring.

"We're watching Jer and Lissa's pathetic attempt at courtship," Mer informs him primly.

"Oh God, they're still making each other miserable?" Finn groans and slouches against Mer's legs. She starts making shapes with his hair, which obligingly sticks up without the aid of gel.

"Lissa waited for Jer to catch a clue and invite her to the bonfire, and when he didn't, settled for Max. Which, ew," Viv says, shuddering delicately. She dated Max for five minutes in middle school and they've hated each other ever since.

"And in retaliation, Jer showed up with Lena McInty," Dane adds. "Which could be a good choice because I heard she gave Charles Eckley a blow job behind the gym yesterday."

"DANE!" Mer and Chelsea yell, both of them punching him in the shoulder. Viv makes a delicately disgusted sound and pointedly ignores Dane's crassness.

"Didn't Lena and Max just break up?" Finn asks, getting them all back on track with the gossip.

"Exactly," Chelsea picks up the story, jerking her head towards the couples in question, all of whom are working to make someone jealous. It's like a weirdly coordinated dance, each pair moving in turn, one-upping the other. Jer and Lena are pressed close, their bodies grinding together like they're listening to Flo Ryda instead of some languishing emo power ballad. "The first thing Lissa did when she got here and saw Jer? She started macking on Max hardcore. Like, 'Oh baby, let's go out in the fields and play Children of the Corn' style."

"That's not a disturbing euphemism at all," Mer mutters. She wonders if she can _nudge_ her idiot friends in the right direction. Especially before Jer heads back to college. She sighs heavily and shakes her head. People are complicated. She glances sideways at her friends and gets distracted by Finn who... "Finn? Are you...taking notes?" Finn looks up from the small spiral notebook he pulled out from...somewhere.

"Well, yeah. I have at least four seasons worth of soap opera material already. Need to get this down before the muse leaves me. Or, you know, finally hooks up. I'm totally going to write the next _Desperate Housewives!_ " Finn says with a grin.

"What are you going to call it, _Fast Times in the Middle of Nowhere_?" Chelsea asks sourly. Mer shakes her head and looks away; the conversations around her are old and familiar. Chelsea hates Iowa, hates their town. She feels stifled by it, by the small-town mentalities that crop up here and there. She thinks she belongs in some grand city like New York or LA. Mer thinks she'll be the first person to leave and the first person to come back.

"I'd definitely watch a show about Iowa. That's must-see TV right there!" Finn says with an irrepressible grin. He wants cheetos so bad Mer can taste them so she absently snags the bag from behind her and hands them to Finn, concentrating on sending Jer and Lissa subtle "get over yourself" vibes. It takes a moment for her to register that her friends have fallen silent around her and they're all staring.

"What?" Mer asks, confused. She brushes her fingers over her face, then over her hair.

"Thanks for handing me the Cheetos for no particular reason even though I was totally craving them without realizing it," Finn says breezily, and everyone laughs. Mer ducks her head and to hide her blush, even though she can feel the gentle acceptance and genuine amusement of her friends. She doesn't slip up a lot; she generally keeps a tight rein on her shields. Except these are her friends and they figured out long ago there's something a little _extra_ about her. They're a part of her, and she gets to relax around them. And she may be a little bit tipsy.

Finn nudges her, his bony elbow digging into her side. She slants a sideways look at him. _Cheeeeeeeeetooooooos! Cheeeeeeeettttoooooosss!_ echoes through her mind.

No one thinks twice when Finn and Mer dissolve into giggles for no apparent reason.

Mer drags Finn's drunk ass home with her. Somewhere she lost track of him and he'd gotten into a drinking contest with Kirk Wulner and the rest of the football team, who'd done water shots to Finn's basement vodka shots. And now he's draped over Mer like a Snuggy with alcohol poisoning.

"Mer, Mer, Mer, Mary-Mer-Mer!" Fin sings and giggles. "You're my very own merry Mary Mer!"

"Seriously, Finnigan? How many shots did you take?"

"I'm this many!" Finn announces and tries to hold up the correct number of fingers. Unfortunately, this means he takes his hands off Mer and fails to balance on his own, careening into her with all his drunken dead weight. Mer stumbles and almost face-plants into the bushes.

"Finn!" she hisses, trying to keep her voice down. Finn's finally got seven fingers up, but his frown of concentration means he's seriously debating whether or not that's right. Mer vows to figure out a way to make her super powers cure drunkenness because this is ridiculous. As it is, she has to carefully prop Finn up carefully with her mind in order to get the door open.

"That issocool!" Finn slurs at her. He won't remember it in the morning; he never does.

"Finnigan, shut the hell up," Mer grunts and hitches his arm more securely over her shoulder. Finn's chest rumbles and he burps lightly.

"Be wery wery quiet!" Finn whispers drunkenly, then starts giggling. They crash into the front table and Mer groans. No way her Dads are actually sleeping through this; the most she can hope for is they ignore the teenage debauchery and stay put in their room. Well, she could hope they're otherwise occupied but...

Finn moans pitifully and tries to double over.

"Don't you dare throw up on me, Finn!" she hisses and drags him up the stairs to the first floor. "Fuck."

"Mary."

"Dad. Hi." Finn raises his head but promptly lets it hang loose again.

"Hey, Misser Winchesser!" Finn says to the ground. He raises the arm not holding onto Mer in a sloppy wave.

Dean purses his lips—mostly to stop from laughing 'cause that would totally destroy the disappointed parent look he's got going on—and turns his attention to his daughter. He arches an eyebrow, silently demanding an explanation and maintaining his carefully cultivated expression.

" _I'm_ not drunk," Mer says defensively. Dean's other eyebrow joins the first. "I'm not! I only had two beers the whole night. I swear."

"Finn can crash in the guest room. And you can come right back down here once you get Drunky McDrunkerson tucked in."

Mer thinks about arguing but Finn starts swaying. She nods and drags Finn up the stairs to Whit's old room. Finn sprawls on the bed, murmurs something indistinct, and passes out. Mer rolls her eyes and puts a trash can beside the bed. She closes her eyes and leaves a little suggestion in Finn's mind so that if he does wake up to vomit, he'll have the overwhelming urge to hit the trash instead of the floor. She's going to get a stern talking-to next time Missouri calls, but it'll be worth it not to clean up in the morning.

Reluctantly, she heads downstairs. She glances into her parent's bedroom and frowns at the mess strewn over the bed. There are two familiar duffle bags on the floor.

"Mer!" her dad calls from the living room.

"Jesus Christ, I'm coming," she mutters to herself.

"I heard that!"

"You heard nothing," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Did so!" Dean insists.

"Oh yeah? How much do I owe the swear jar then?" Dean eyeballs his kid and tries to figure out if this is a trick question.

"Two," he settles on.

"Yeah, you didn't hear shit."

"Mer!"

"What?"

"You're grounded."

"Dad! That's—"

"Fair considering Lissa got grounded for a month."

"Hypocritical."

"My past," Dean says with all the parental entitlement he can muster, "is not the yardstick by which you may judge your life and your liberties."

"Hi, Whitney, where'd you come from?" Mer asks sarcastically. Dean thinks for a second about how to respond to that.

"You're right, I should have put that in my own words. So: drinking is evil, it leads to drugs, teenage pregnancy and listening to John Mayer. Don't do it."

"Tell that to Jim, Jack, Jose and Captain Morgan. They're having a party back behind the flour."

"That...is for emergencies," Dean splutters.

"Emergencies? Like, 'Oh my God Oprah actually _is_ screwing Gail, I need a drink STAT?' That kind of emergency?"

"You're still grounded," Dean says, scowling. Mer glares, jaw setting in the way that means she's gearing up for war, and the seriousness of the situation settles heavily on Dean. "Alcohol weakens your shields. It makes you slow, screws with your reaction time. So I don't care if it's one beer or two, you got me?" He projects his worry and fear, ruthlessly exploiting the one advantage he still has.

"I got you," Mer says softly. "Sorry. About Finn too. He's..."

"Finn," Dean says wryly. Mer smirks at him and they share a look of mutual understanding. Dean's no narc, so Finn's dad won't hear anything about his son's exploits from him, but John has a way of ferreting out information about his kid so Finn may be spending a lot of time in his room for the foreseeable future.

"So why are you guys up anyways?" Mer asks. There's something about the way she says is and crosses her arms that makes Dean uncomfortable. Like he's walking into a trap.

"Oh. Uh, we..."

"You're going on a hunt," Mer says flatly; she's felt the niggling restlessness for the past few days and has been waiting for the announcement. Dean meets his daughter's look without flinching, which he counts as a win. Mer's eyes turn flinty and her nostrils flair in disapproval. "Oooooof course you are. Don't come back dead, okay? And don't expect me to wait up." Mer turns to leave, anger simmering bright within her.

"Mer!" Dean grabs her arm to prevent her from storming off. "Mary! We are not done talking."

"Didn't sound like much of a conversation to me," Mer snarls, jerking her arm out of his hold. "Sounds like you're telling me—"

"Yeah, I'm _telling_ you, because I am the Dad and you are the kid and I get to do that now!" Dean's not quite yelling. Yet. Anger and frustration simmers between them.

"You started hunting when you were fourteen," Mer says, as if that has any bearing on the here and now.

"Thirteen," Dean corrects, and winces when Mer glares at him. He's not helping himself at all. "And you'll never start if I can help it."

"Dad!"

"No. Hunting...I don't know how to do anything else. And it's not a life I want for you. The hunting, the drinking, it's all...those things...I never want to lay awake at night and wonder if you're not coming home. If some supernatural thing caught up with you and I wasn't there..."

"I can pick up _boulders_ with my _mind._ You've trained me my entire life to do something I'm not even allowed to do!"

"We've trained you to protect yourself, not to throw your life away."

"Is that how you feel about your life?" Mer challenges. "About me?"

"Don't do that," Dean warns. "Do _not_ do that." Of all the annoying habits she's picked up from Sam, this is the one he hates most, the part where they twist his words and pick them apart until even Dean doesn't remember what he meant.

Mer glares down at the floor, anger and resentment rolling off her. Dean feels her start to pull away, packing away her emotions one by one until she's just a slick, smooth surface of dead calm. The unnatural placidity of her mind grates on Dean just as much as her roiling mass of teenage emotions.

"It's late," Mer says, voice inflectionless. Her eyes focus on the mid-distance, somewhere over Dean's shoulder. "We can talk about this later." Dean doesn't know whether to be grateful she's more mature than he'll ever be, walking away before they say something they'll regret, or to be pissed at the inherent dismissal in her words.

He nods sharply and watches her walk stiffly out of the room.

\---

Sam listens to Dean and Mer fight from the bedroom. The flatness of her voice as she dismisses Dean at the end sends chills up Sam's spine. His dream-visions flash before him, lightening-quick: the smell of fresh blood, _Dean's_ blood, Mer's chilling smile, the gleam of a bloody knife.

 _Protect him at all costs,_ his instincts scream.

 _Neutralize the threat,_ his training tells him.

Sam chokes on the taste of bile, closes his eyes and forces the images away. He slows his breathing and calms himself by dint of will alone. He can't do this much longer. He can't fight his instincts and training every second of every day—he can already feel himself fraying and unraveling at the edges. He needs to sort out what's going on. Get his head on straight.

He needs to get away.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean walks across the street before they leave to say goodbye to Whit and Damien and drop hints about Mer's latest snit. She hasn't talked to him since their fight this morning, just looked scornfully at his packed duffel and shut herself in her room.

"Dean," Whit interrupts his bitchfest, exasperated, "my mom and I couldn't speak five civil words to each other when I was a teenager. It was like World War III erupted on a regular basis. We even reenacted the Cold War a few times."

"Impossible," Dean says dismissively. Whit arches an eloquent eyebrow in question. "Sam and Dad had the Cold War on lock. You were, like, the Cuban Missile Crisis at best." Whit laughs and bounces a crumpled up paper towel off Dean's head.

"Shut up, Losechester." She makes shooing motions and starts herding Dean out the door. "You and Sam take a break. Go on your little hunty thing. Have obnoxiously loud sex without the kid around. I'll talk to Mer."

"My 'little hunty thing' is a dangerous creature of darkness and evil!" Dean gripes, pouting. He exchanges a weary look with Damien, who gives him a mock salute. "It's not a vacation!"

"Uh huh." Whit keeps nudging him towards the door. Dean manages to snag a sandwich off the island before Whit can stop him.

"Werewolves are dangerous! I could come back maimed and disfigured!" Dean wails. At least, that's what Whit thinks he says around the massive bite of sandwich stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Might be an improvement," Whit points out, always quick to find the silver lining in any situation.

"I hate you!" Dean yells at her as the door closes.

"I'll put lilies on your coffin, Deany-Weeny!" Whit responds, voice muffled by the wood.

"I'm going to come back as a werewolf just to eat you, you heartless bitch!" Dean hollers back. Always does have to get in the last word. "Don't let Mer throw any parties at the house!"

\---

Mer ignores the knocks on her door, the announcements that they're leaving, the heartfelt sighs. She watches from her window, hidden by the drapes, when they go. Her Dad looks up at her room one final time before he climbs into the Impala. She especially ignores the half-hearted wave he gives in hopes that she really is watching.

 

The farther they get from Saybrook the lighter Sam feels. By the time they pull into a ramshackle motel right outside of Fayetteville, Arkansas, he’s practically giddy and fidgeting and Dean is giving him the stink eye. Sam doesn't care. Mer is 400 miles away and Dean is safe and they're _hunting_. Anticipation makes him grin so wide his cheeks hurt.

Dean shakes his head and mutters something unflattering that Sam, being the magnanimous human being he is, ignores. He pulls out their bags while Dean gets them a room just so he has something to do. He needs to move. He feels good, energized. They're wasting time.

Dean exits the rundown office with two honest-to-God keys in his hand, garish fobs hanging off the ends. Sam picks up their bags and steps up to meet him. Dean stops for a moment and stares, as if he's never seen Sam shoulder two duffel bags before. Granted, Sam has usually just lost a bet, but Dean doesn't have to be a jerk about it. Sam waits impatiently for Dean to come to whatever conclusion he's looking for.

"Come on then, Hoke," Dean finally says. "We're in room seven." Sam obediently follows Dean and wonders when he got those jeans. They look pretty fantastic, the brand logo etched in red thread on one pocket. Dean bends over slightly as he unlocks the door and the fabric pulls tight. Sam figures he could strip them off Dean's body in about ten seconds.

Dean tosses the keys on a shaky-looking table.

“We should probably—” Sam doesn’t let him finish, just knocks Dean down onto the bed, their legs dangling over the side. The duffels hit the floor with a dull thunk and Sam vaguely registers the sound of the door closing.

"Jesus, _Sam!"_ Sam was wrong. It only takes him eight seconds to pants Dean—who is conveniently going commando today—and that's the last thought he spares for the jeans.

Dean's mostly hard, but he's still got some growing to do, so Sam lends a helping mouth. Dean lets out a string of guttural bitten-off syllables that run together in one long curse, fingers gripping the bed sheet. Sam licks and sucks until Dean's a whining, mindless mess, vocal like they can't be with a kid in the house.

Sam's fingers probe at Dean's opening, working their way in without help. Dean whimpers and twitches, trying to catch a thought even though Sam has thoroughly and completely wrecked him. It's not easy when Sam's intent on sucking his brain out through his dick. Sam's finger slides deeper in him and Dean arches away.

"Sam. Lube." Sam hums and keeps with the infernal, glorious, evil sucking. His un-lubed finger finds Dean's prostate and the world goes fuzzy for a little while. But Dean's ass reminds him that lube is not a suggestion when Sam starts working in a second finger. "Lube, Sammy. I'm not even fucking joking, I will cut you off if—" The lube flies from somewhere and bounces off Dean's head. Sam laughs, the sound muffled around Dean's cock.

"Smartass." Sam swallows in response and Dean loses time while his brain liquefies. When he swims back to the read world Sam's put the lube to good use. He's got four fingers stretching Dean wide and he's left Dean's dick in favor of biting his way up Dean's chest.

"Ow!" Dean yelps, Sam's sharp little teeth digging into his skin. He pushes up on his elbows and looks down his body. Sam's leaving a trail of hickeys up his belly. Dean buries his hands in Sam's hair and yanks. Sam's eyes are just a thin ring of hazel around huge dark pupils. His lips are shiny and pink.

"Fuck me," Dean orders, his voice ragged and harsh. Sam blinks, the grins slowly.

"Yeah," Sam says, and Dean's grip on Sam's hair tightens involuntarily because Sam's voice sounds like its dragging over gravel. "Yeah, okay." Sam moves and hoists Dean's legs over his broad shoulders. He presses forward and Dean's back twinges but Dean tells it to shut the fuck up. Sam spreads lube over himself and pushes into Dean with a groan.

Sam tries to give himself a moment but Dean's got other ideas. He's a little restricted in what he can do, legs slung over Sam's shoulders, but he's got mad skillz. He tenses his muscles and jerks his hips in a circular motion. Sam whimpers and Dean swears Sam's eyes cross. Dean keeps up his torture until Sam's breath is ragged and his hips are moving in shallow, uncontrollable thrusts.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean grunts, bracing himself on the bed for better leverage. "Fuckin' _fuck_ me." Dean rakes his nails over Sam's back and gets the desired result. Sam surges up and fucks him, just like he asked. It's wild and brutal and Dean loves every second of it.

Sam likes the sting of Dean's nails against his back, the way his heels dig in for purchase. Here, like this, Dean belongs to Sam. Nothing else exists. Sam presses his face into the curve of Dean's neck and breathes, tries to keep control of himself. He wants to mark Dean, somewhere the world can see, where they'll all know who Dean belongs to.

 _Do it._ Sam whimpers as Dean's mind brushes against his own, hot with desire. Dean's lost in his own pleasure, just a litany of _yes Sam-more-do it-please-Sam-mine-yours-Sam-Sam-Sam_.

Sam gives in to the need to claim. He bites down on Dean's neck, tasting the sweat gathered there, a flavor uniquely Dean. Dean yells and arches up, bares his neck for Sam in submission and Sam feels himself hurtling towards the edge. He wraps his mind around Dean and makes sure they come together.

Sam lets himself fall on Dean, eyes sliding closed in post-coital exhaustion. The world around him is still, his mind at ease. He floats along on his contentment; there's still a part of him mentally wrapped around Dean, warm and loose.

Dean starts squirming, Sam's weight making him uncomfortable. Sam lets Dean push him around, too tired to really help. Dean gives a little gasp of pain when the movements pull at his neck.

“Dude!” Dean runs a finger over his shoulder and winces. Sam left him with one hell of a hickey—not for the first time, but Dean can feel that this one is particularly deep. “You turning into a vampire?”

“Mmm, mine,” Sam says sleepily, tightening his hold on Dean.

“Yeah yeah, you’re a possessive fuck, I get it,” Dean sighs, but he runs a hand gently through Sam's hair. He rolls into Sam and resigns himself to being Sam's personal a teddy bear.

Outside of the hotel room, a man finished painting a series of symbols over the unprotected door. He can still feel the remnants of the lust spell lingering around this place. He uses the energy to add to his casting.

He double checks the neat, precise rows of symbols, making adjustments and wiping off the places where the dark, thick liquid has run. When he is content with his efforts, he names each one, imbuing it with power and purpose.

He sends Sam Winchester more than dreams. He sends the human terror and helplessness and pain and keeps his target locked in his body, limbs frozen in dream-paralysis, as he watches his most beloved die over and over again. He calls up memories from Sam's past, the happiest he can find, and lays fear over them. Instead of laughter there are screams of death and loss. Where he teaches Mer to use her powers, to school her mind, there are future fears and paranoia and guilt—he gave her to the tools to kill.

It is not an easy spell, but Nybbas has been doing this for years.

\---

Sam wakes up in silence, limbs frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. Someone touches him and he reacts instinctually, lashing out and scrambling off the bed. Awareness creeps in through the veil of his panicked breathing.

“You okay?” He jerks back and hits his head against the wall. Dean is crouched over him, concerned, a dark mark near his eye. “What happened?” Sam tries to speak but his throat closes and his body freezes in fear. A part of him desperately wants to confide in Dean, tell him about the reoccurring nightmare that has plagued his sleep, but he can't. He's been silent for too long.

Dean pulls away.

“Dean...” Sam pleads, grabbing Dean's arm. He tries to reach for Dean's mind, but he's locked out. Sam looks at Dean helplessly. Dean regards him steadily for a few seconds and then gently removes Sam's hand from his arm. He stands up and heads towards the bathroom.

“Come on Sammy, we've got a werewolf to kill,” Dean calls over his shoulder. Sam winces at the soft click of the bathroom door.

Whit grins to herself as she watches Damien putter around the room, pulling on clothes and pushing the knickknacks on their dresser around. It's a lazy Sunday morning and her husband's leaving for a month-long recruiting trip for the hospital—in Albuquerque, of all places—at the end of the month, so Whitney feels justified laying here and watching him. They trade glances in the mirror like they're newlyweds who can't get enough of each other. Damien grins slowly, knowingly, and Whit hides her face in her pillow, fighting her blush. God, she even feels like a newlywed.

"What in tarnation is going on in here?" They both jump at the unexpected interruption and Damien blushes bright red. Mer looks at them suspiciously, eyes narrowed. Whit groans because there's really no point in trying to hide anything from her and they both know it. Damien, the spineless shit, escapes into the bathroom just as Mer figures it out.

"Ohmigod! Oh my God, WHIT!" The bed bounces as Mer throws herself on it, pushing Whit over on her back and pulling the covers down. She peers curiously at Whit's stomach then pokes it experimentally.

"You brat!" Whit says with a laugh and grabs a pillow off the bed to swat her. Mer giggles and dodges, claiming her own pillow and deflecting Whit's blows. They tussle for a little while until they're both out of breath and panting lightly. Whit grins up at the ceiling and lays a hand protectively on her stomach.

"Are you..." Mer trails off, looking pointedly at Whit's hand.

"I dunno," Whit murmurs. "We only decided to try last night. You tell me." Mer closes her eyes and puts her hand over Whit's, the two of them splayed in a protective embrace, as if there's already life growing there. Whit's pretty sure she's not pregnant. Yet. But she bets Mer will be better than a pregnancy test.

"Nope," Mer says. "No buns in your oven. I hope Dame's not shooting blanks."

"Mer! You did not just say that!" Whit moans, covering her face. Mer is her father's child, throwing innuendo and inappropriateness around like it's going out of style. She's seventeen and growing up, but Whit can't shake the memories of Mer as a toddler, the kid who stayed up and played until she keeled over on her feet, out of gas. Mer props herself up on her elbow and grins at Whit, so filled with bubbly energy Whit has a vision: Mer at five, grinning at her with mischievous intent, green eyes sparkling, poised on the top of the dress just waiting for one of her dads to come in so she could fly.

"Seriously, are you going to give me a little sister? I want a little sister. DAMIEN! YOU HEAR ME? SISTER! TELL YOUR X'ER SPERMIES THEY BETTER GET CRACKIN'!" There goes baby Mer, whoosh, right out the door.

"Mer!" Whit censures, but it lacks any real sting because she's too busy laughing.

"My X'ers tell me they've taken your request into consideration!" Damien calls from the bathroom. There's only a slight strain in his voice that tells them he's embarrassed beyond belief. Really, he's been doing much better over the last few years.

"If you promise me a little sister, I won't tell the dads," Mer bargains. Oh God. Whit covers her eyes with a hand. She can't imagine dealing with Sam and Dean while she's pregnant. They're bad enough as it is: frazzled mother hens who worry about everyone but themselves. Oh God, and the things Dean will _say_ to Damien...

It's definitely in everyone's best interest that Sam and Dean stay in the dark as long as possible. Ideally till right about when the nurses are filling out the birth certificate.

"Deal," Whit agrees, and they shake on it. Mer beams at the ceiling. Whit can see the gears in her head working overtime, everything from names to her little sister's introduction to the Winchester Prank War.

"I am going to be the best big sister ever!" Mer announces giddily, and Whit doesn't doubt her for a second. She reaches over and ruffles Mer's hair, ridiculously content that she had something to do with raising the young woman beside her.

"I hope you're ready for babysitting duty," Whit teases.

"If you can afford me," Mer fires back, but she's clearly a hundred miles away making plans for Whit's as yet unconceived child. Damien is still hiding in the bathroom when Mer sits bolt upright, eyes wide. "Dude, can we go buy baby clothes today?!"

"Heeeere, wolfie wolfie wolfie! Calling the werewolf formerly known as Madison. I've got some silver with your name on it." Dean carefully eases a door open, vigilant for attack. He really fucking hates werewolves. "I really fucking hate werewolves." Dean clears the room and the closet. They've been through almost the entire house without any sign of the werewolf. The silence of the house sets Dean on edge—silence is never good.

"It's not here." Dean whirls around, shotgun raised.

"GodDAMN it, Sam!" Dean lowers his gun and glares, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing. "Don't do that." Really, Sam knows better than to sneak up on him during a hunt. It's sloppy work and Sam could have ended up with buckshot in his chest.

"Dean, it's not here," Sam gripes, blithely ignoring Dean and the gun pointed at his chest. He's practically vibrating with tension, fingers drumming against the barrel of his shotgun, eyes darting restlessly around the room. Dean carefully opens himself to Sam, mental shields sliding back. Sam feels wired, like a junkie riding the razor edge of a high right before he crashes. "Your intel was wrong."

"Maybe that's what it wants us to think," Dean fires back. Sam snorts and sidles over to the window. His agitation seeps into Dean's skin and makes Dean feel edgy. "What's up with you?"

"What?" Sam asks, blinking stupidly. His fingers drum against the window ledge in a quick staccato, shotgun cradled in one arm, brow furrowed.

"You're all..." Dean bounces in place to demonstrate. Sam rolls his eyes and Dean glares. One more thing to avoid with Sam. Dean's felt this...restlessness in Sam for a while now. When they hunt, sometimes when they fuck, an edge of feral desperation tints their encounters. It's usually manageable—Dean thinks of it as a side effect of their lives and the constant life-or-death—but it's gotten worse lately. Strong enough to be a distraction.

"Too much bad coffee at the gas station," Sam says dismissively. Dean can taste the bitterness of the lie and it shocks him. What does Sam have to lie about here? "What do you—"

It happens without any warning. Sam pushes Dean out of the way and then hits the ground hard, the grotesquely muscular werewolf on top of him, jaws snapping. Sam's muscles bulge as he keeps the wolf's teeth away from him, one had wrapped around the beast's throat.

Dean brings his gun up to shoot and the creature turn its attention to him, claws digging into Sam's flesh as it jumps. Dean gets his shotgun wedged between the werewolf's jaws on instinct. Its claws dig into Dean's chest and thighs and slobber drips all over him as the creature lunges forward, trying to rip out his throat. He hits the ground with a thud. Dean's mind is blank of anything but survival.

Dean hears another growl and thinks, _"Fuck there are two."_ Only the werewolf gets hauled off him with a dog-like yelp. Dean belatedly registers pale, corded arms wrapped around the werewolf's ribcage.

He sits up dazedly, arms like jelly, bleeding from the superficial cuts the wolf's claws inflicted on him. Sam and the creature are struggling on the other side of the room, a sheer test of raw physical strength that Sam shouldn't be able to compete in, much less win. Dean stares, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when Sam grabs the creature's slobbering, gnashing mouth, one hand on each jaw. The wolf screams and a wet, retching sound fills the room.

Sam rips the werewolf's jaw off.

Dean blinks. Blood cascades onto the floor and the werewolf makes soft, unrealized noises deep in its throat. Sam twists the creature's head around and it dies with a gurgle. Dean hears it start to shift back to its human form, but he's arrested by the sight of Sam, eyes wild, wolf's blood drenching the front of his shirt and splattered across his face. His eyes are so dark they look black, Sam stands over his kill, chest heaving and panting.

Dean grunts as he sits up. He's definitely pulled a muscle in his back and he's bleeding in several places. Sam's attention snaps to him and Dean freezes like prey. Danger makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and the oily sensation of something supernatural gathers around them. Sure enough, a breeze starts up, ruffling Sam's hair. Neither of them move. Sam's still sucking in air like he's just run a marathon, eyes boring into Dean without blinking.

Moments pass before the cloying feeling of wrong recedes enough for Dean to venture a wary, "Sammy?" Sam jerks, on high alert, and Dean freezes again. Sam's not _Sam_ right now, not really. This is some darker, more primal side of his brother that Dean's never seen before. But he's gotten tastes of it. He remembers Reno and Bellmont and a handful of small, unrelated incidences that are coming together to paint a very disturbing picture.

Dean takes a deep breath and reaches out for Sam with his mind, trying to calm him down. He's not very good at it. For a second he kicks himself for not joining Mer and Sam in their little practice session. (Back when they _had_ practice sessions.) He'd always thought of this as cheating, but right now he'd give his left foot to be able to force Sam back to himself.

When Sam feels calmer, Dean slowly pushes onto his feet, keeping his actions obvious and predictable. "Alright, Sammy. Something fucked up is going on and we're going to figure it out, okay? We need to put holy water on those wounds so you keep that nice hairless thing you got going on your chest. Let's get out to the car, yeah?" He takes a step back and Sam snarls low in his throat, a sound so animalistic Dean's terrified Sam got bitten before he remembers it takes a few weeks for the lycanthropy virus to take hold.

Dean edges towards the threshold. Sam tracks his movements, body shifting so he's half-hidden in the shadows. Dean opens up a little more and gasps. Sam feels...tainted, like the faint aftertaste of milk just gone bad. Like he's just a little bit out of sync with the world. Dean shakes his head to clear it because he's confusing himself.

"Sam," Dean says, barely a breath, but it's enough. Sam slams into him, sending them both tumbling into the hallway. He pins Den to the wall and buries his face in Dean's neck, right over the mark he left last night. Over his shoulder, Dean can see the werewolf lying in a spreading pool of dark blood, ripped apart by Sam's bare hands.

Sam feels hot, like he's burning from a fever. His skin gleams with sweat. He presses an erection into Dean's thigh, but Dean is about as far from being aroused as possible. He grinds his teeth together as Sam bites down on his shoulder, hard, directly over his bruise. Every time Dean tries to twist away, Sam slams him back down, pins him harder. It's almost as if he's enjoying Dean's struggles.

Dean relaxes, just enough for Sam to think he's let down his guard. Sam nuzzles against Dean's neck, licking at his skin, hands letting go of his wrists to slip under clothes; one slithers up Dean's shirt, the other into the waist band of his pants. When Sam's tilted forward, a little off balance, Dean moves.

In the space of a breath, he twists them so he falls on top, pressing his advantage. He jams his knee hard against Sam's crotch, digging the hardest part into his balls. He digs the toe of his other foot into the floor for leverage, pressing all of his weight down against Sam, restricting his movement. His left elbow pins Sam's shoulder to the floor, and his forearm forces Sam's head up and back, tight against his windpipe. He retrieves a silver knife from the sheath at his waist and presses the blade right against Sam's jugular.

Dean's heart pounds in his ears as they hold the stalemate. Dean can still feel the tension in Sam, can still taste the wrongness. It takes a long time for Sam to come back to himself. Dean's never felt such relief to see his brother's eyes widen in horror.

Dean takes a moment to be sure that Sam is back in control before he relaxes his hold.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean asks. Sam pushes Dean off and scuttles away until his back hits the wall. His eyes are wide, the whites of them large and unmistakable. He's shaking, his breath coming in large, jagged gasps. “Sammy—” Dean steps towards him, hand out, and Sam jerks away from him so hard he dents the drywall.

“Stay back,” Sam rasps.

“What the hell is going on, Sam?” Sam shakes his head and buries his face in his hands. Dean carefully sheathes his knife and rocks back on his heels, studying his brother. If he's honest with himself—something he tries to avoid at all costs—this has been building for a while. Dean's been waiting for Sam to talk to him because, well, that's how it works. Sam talks, Dean pretends not to listen, and they deal. Of course, usually it's Dean who has the issue and Sam's prying it out of him with a crowbar and a blowtorch. "Sam. You wanna...talk? About...it?"

“Look, I..." Sam scrubs his face and refuses to meet Dean's eyes. He pulls in on himself, just the barest hint of his emotions on the surface. He pulls away from Dean and _that_ hurts. Sam flinches as Dean's pain/confusion/fear hits him, but he doesn't back down. "I have a lead on a black dog in Kentucky," Sam says neutrally.

Dean blinks. The lie tastes like ash and his gorge rises. He swallows thickly. "Sammy—"

"I think I should take care of it," Sam interrupts, eyes sliding to the side. He takes one step back, then another. The physical distance doesn't hurt as much as the mental wall Sam's put up between them.

The silence stretches interminably, Dean frozen in place. Sam refuses to look at him, and Dean's gaze burns through Sam like a laser.

"You're leaving," Dean says flatly, and Sam cringes. But doesn't back down. He needs some time away. From Mer. God, even from Dean. He needs to clear his head and figure out what's going on with his dreams.

"Not...not forever."


	3. Chapter 3

Mer's waiting for him when he gets home. She's got hot chocolate steaming on the table with an entire bag of mini marshmallows just for him. Dean sighs, drops his pack by the door, and sinks gratefully into one of the seats. Mer lets him savor about half his cup before she starts with the Inquisition.

“So where'd he go?” Dean sees Mer tense in reaction to the emotions he can't quite keep to himself. There are times he wishes he could lie to her. Parents are allowed to lie to their kids about stuff—Santa Clause is real, bad things never happen to good people, parents never fight.

“He...” Dean abruptly realizes that he _doesn't know._ He doesn't know where Sam went—it's definitely not Kentucky—or really why he left or when (if) he might be coming back. He can hazard a guess that it has to do with Sam's nightmares and growing animosity with Mer and possibly with Dean himself, but other than those vague, very broad notions? Dean's as much in the dark as Mer because Sam has shut him out.

“What happened?” Mer asks quietly. She picks at the table top. "Was it...did I..."

"No," Dean says quickly, reaching out and grabbing her hand. "It's not you. Sam...Sam kind of lost it on the hunt. Too much stress. He's got some things he needs to figure out." Jesus, that sounds lame even to him. But it's as close to the truth as Dean can get because Sam's been pulling away from all of them for a while now and he doesn't tell Dean things anymore. It's taken Dean this long to admit it, but once it's there he can't take it back. He tries to _show_ this to Mer, but he's not sure if he's helping or making the situation worse.

Mer frowns at the table top. Dean commiserates, language really isn't effective for describing what people feel; emotions are usually tangled and layered, and very confusing. Particularly when the person in question exhibits two seemingly oppositional and contradictory feelings. And Sam is king of confusion.

“I can't...sometimes I lose him," Mer confesses, glancing at him through her hair as if she's admitting a secret. Dean looks at her helplessly, trying to figure out what he's supposed to say. This is Sam's area of expertise, he always seems to get what Mer's trying to say. The have their own shorthand when it comes to their powers

"I don't know what that means," Dean admits. He feels like he's failed her. Mer lets out an annoyed sigh and slouches in her chair. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"There's you and Atta and Whit in my head," Mer says haltingly. Dean tries to get over the wave of emotion hearing Atta come out of Mer's mouth for the first time in too long. It's been _Uncle Sam_ , spit out like a curse, since she was fourteen. "All the time. Okay, this isn't coming out right."

Dean sips his chocolate and lets Mer figure out how to explain things.

"Okay, so my brain is a map," Mer says suddenly.

"A map? Is there buried treasure?"

"Ha ha. Lame." Dean sticks his tongue out at her. Mer huffs.

"Okay, brain map, check," Dean says, signaling her to get back on track.

"Yes. Brain Map City. And in Brain Map City there are three...city centers. You know, how if you look at Saybrook on a map, all the roads lead to the Church, or the old Town Hall?"

"They do?"

"Dad." Mer opens her eyes and glares at him like he should know this; like it's something everyone knows.

"What, I didn't know that!" He protests. His daughter's eyes narrow at him suspiciously. He holds up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute. "Scout's honor."

"That's the Girl Scout salute," Mer points out dryly. Dean glances at his fingers and shrugs, then grins wickedly. He's done both. Mer blanches."Dad! Oh my God. Oh my _God._ I am trying to have a serious discussion here and you—brain bleach! I need brain bleach!"

"You shouldn't be peeking, baby girl," Dean says seriously, but he stops thinking about that girl scout.

"Peeking? A neon sign would have been less subtle than that." Dean looks at her over his mug and she scowls, then mutters, "Sorry."

"Apology accepted." He figures she's been punished enough as is.

"Thanks, can we go back to the _serious_ part of the conversation, or would you like to traumatize me a little bit more?"

"Whichever works best for you," Dean offers magnanimously. He hopes she goes for the mental trauma.

"No," Mer answers his unspoken desire. "As I was saying. All the old cities generally spiraled outwards from the town center—usually the church. So you are my Town Hall and Whit and Atta are my churches and everything in my head spirals out from the three of you. It's all tied to you, like an anchor. Except Atta...he disappears sometimes. And it's okay for a little while, but if he's gone too long everything starts to unravel. And I get the headaches, and. I think, every time it happens, he's less."

"Less," Dean repeats. He desperately wishes his hot chocolate was a whiskey.

"Like...the streets are rearranging themselves. You know?"

"Yeah," Dean says past the lump in his throat. "You're saying Sam's losing parishioners." He says it lightly, but it's not light at all. The silence stretches for a beat, then two.

“It's...his entire building is crumbling,” Mer says. “And I don't know how to fix it.” She looks at him like he might have the answers. Like he can give her the key to fixing Sam, their relationship, the whole goddamn world. Dean searches for something—anything—to say, but comes up blank. Sometimes, it sucks not being able to lie to his kid.

Sam hovers on the threshold of the store. This is the sixth psychic he's been to see in a week. Four of them kicked him out of their store the moment he set foot across the threshold. One had started his reading and had a heart attack moments in.

This is the last one, he swears.

"Sam." Sam spins around, reaching instinctively for the gun at his back. The psychic looks...normal. An Asian man of indeterminate age in a plain gray shirt and jeans, an easy smile on his face. None o the affected persona many psychics have cultivated. "Come on back."

Sam follows the man into the shop, past the area set up for civilians. The back room is comfortable; it feels like a den, lived in and safe. The psychic sits at a round table and gestures for Sam to sit across from him. Sam follows the unspoken command.

"Name's Jeffrey. I think you'll understand if I don't shake your hand." Sam and Jeffrey share a look of understanding. Jeffrey expression turns curious and probing, but Sam doesn't feel any of his energy actually touch him. "You understand I can't answer all of your questions. Your problems...they won't be easily solved."

"How much do you know?" Sam asks sharply. Jeffrey shrugs and picks up a deck of ordinary playing cards. He cuts them like a card shark, movements sure yet automatic.

"The gist, my man. You've got problems. You shoulder them like Atlas. You'll break or you'll bend, you may even shrug, but either way you won't be the same."

"That a prediction?" Sam challenges, and Jeffrey shakes his head, expression bleak.

"That's inevitable." He offers the deck to Sam, spread wide in his hands. Sam feels like he's poised on a precipice. The patterned top of the cards, deceptively simple, taunt him.

"Don't you want to know my question?" Sam asks. Jeffrey shrugs noncommittally and shakes the cards. Sam pulls out seven at random, laying them face down on the table in a crescent. He feels a sudden attack of nausea and swallows thickly, forcing it down.

"The first card is your past." Jeffrey flips the card to show the three of clubs. "A favorable relationship, one of love and second chances. This is at the crux of your query." That can only be Dean. And since Sam's question is how to save Dean....

Jeffrey reveals the second card, the ten of spades. "Your present is filled with worry. You're blinded by it, consumed. It colors everything you see. Perhaps what drove you to me?" Sam merely shrugs and gestures for Jeffrey to continue.

"Your future. The four of clubs. It pairs closely with the first card and warns of dishonesty or deceit—blind acceptance brings misfortune or failure." Sam forces himself to breathe. Goosebumps break out over his skin. He can feel sweat sliding down the back of his neck. Deceit and dishonesty surrounding Dean. Every protective instinct in Sam rises up.

"What do I do?" Sam asks hoarsely. Jeffrey flips over the next card.

"The five of hearts, your guide card. Indecisiveness. You can't make up your mind about something..." Jeffrey frowns and turns then next card without waiting for Sam. His frown deepens upon seeing the three of spades. "This card represents the external influences."

"Well?" Sam prompts. He can tell from the way Jeffrey hesitates that he's torn between telling Sam something positive, uplifting, and utterly made up...and the truth. Jeffrey glances at him and whatever he sees on Sam's face makes him hurry through his explanation.

"This card represents a third person causing tension. Someone breaking into your relationship. Paired with the last card, due in large part to your indecisiveness. You need to make up your mind because this card leads us to the sixth card, your hopes and fears. The nine of hearts is the wish card, what you most desire. Surrounded as it is by the other cards, you'll face many obstacles in getting what you want, but it isn't beyond your reach. Not yet."

Sam stares at the spread before him. Six cards, all warning him. Not his first warning, either. His visions have been warning him about Mer for a long time now, and maybe if he stops hovering in uncertainty he can save both Dean and Mer and their family. Regardless, he's done watching from the outside.

Sam knows what he has to do.

"The seventh card is the final outcome," Jeffrey says, his gaze on Sam. He reaches for the card but Sam stops him before he can turn it over.

"It doesn't matter." Sam stands, his chair toppling over backwards. "I know what I have to do. Thank you, Jeffrey."

Black, empty eyes follow Sam out of the room. As he disappears out the door, Jeffrey's easy-going facade morphs into a twisted grin. The demon wearing Jeffrey Shieh's skin flips over the last card: the ace of spades. The death card.

"Run along home, Samael. There is much for you to do."

\---

Sam breathes easy for the first time in what feels like years. Might actually _be_ years. He dials Dean's cell and gets the voice mail.

"Hey Dean. It's...it's me. Look, I know things are crazy. Have been crazy for a while and I haven't been...I want to come home. I'm _coming_ home, because I think I figured it out and I miss you. So yeah. I'm in Page, Arizona. Random, I know, but there was someone I had to talk to here. But I'm three days away if I push it, so...yeah. I'll see you in three days. I...I love you."

Three figures slink out of the shadows and convene under the flickering neon light of a motel in the middle of nowhere, Arizona. The blinking light highlights their features in sharp contours. They face off like combatants preparing for battle.

"Agares. From Duke to errand boy, how the mighty have fallen," a woman with blonde hair sneers mockingly.

"Ruby," Agares taunts, still wearing the skin of Jeffrey Shieh. He runs a finger down Ruby's face. "How was demon rehab? There are those of us who think it didn't quite...take. Any chance of that? I had such fun hunting you down the first time."

"You can hunt me any time," Ruby says seductively. Agares leers and leans into her space, only to feel the tip of her knife pressed against his femoral artery, the blade lying across his balls. "Just know I hunt back."

"I have work to do." Nybbas' dry, monotone voice grates. Agares and Ruby silently agree to a ceasefire based upon a mutual dislike of Nybbas, manager of visions and dreams—Alistair's favorite PR demon.

"Aw, isn't poor Sammy-Wammy due one night off? He can't be getting enough beauty sleep with all those nightmares you keep throwing his way," Agares mocks. Nybbas merely stares at Agares with incurious eyes.

"Right, so if we're done dicking around, Alistair wants a report," Ruby snaps. Agares loses his teasing edge. Even Nybbas shows some sign of life at that.

"Jeffrey here gave Sam the reading of his life. It's amazing how flexible those cards really are." Agares grins gleefully. "Sammy-boy will be running home as fast as he can."

"Good." They all start as Alistair materializes in front of them, eyes a soulless white. Nybbas bows low. "I think it's time to pay a visit to Iowa."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean wakes up to green eyes peering at him.

"That is really creepy," he says, his voice a sleep-rough rumble. He drags his hand over his morning stubble and wonders what time it is. (The answer is always too early.)

"You ever wonder if I'm going to find my mate and destroy the world?" Dean blinks at the ceiling; whatever the time is, it's way too early for Mer's deeply unphilosophical questions.

" _Children of the Damned_?" Dean asks, dragging some long-lost memory to the fore. He glances at the clock. He has three hours before he should even _think_ about being awake.

" _Village of the Damned_. Creepy bottle blondes? Before Harry Potter made it cool?"

"Draco Malfoy," Dean corrects automatically, too tired to watch his mouth.

"HA!" Dean swears and pulls a pillow over his head. It's poor defense against the seventeen-year-old bouncing gleefully on his bed. "You've so read every single _Harry Potter_ book, admit it! Admit it admit it admit it!" Dean grabs her ankle on the next bounce and yanks her feet from underneath her. She falls on the bed, giggling, and Dean wraps himself around her like he used to do when she was little and would curl into his chest. Though when she was little she never poked him in the head.

"Stop it!" he snaps, swatting at her hand. "Trying to sleep here."

"Admit it," Mer orders mulishly. Dean sighs; there's really nothing else he can do, Mer will needle him for days if need be to get what she wants.

"I liked Snape," Dean admits. "Now shut it."

"Snape or Alan Rickman?" Mer teases. Dean laughs and refuses to answer. They lapse into an easy silence. Dean drifts in and out, not letting himself fall asleep just yet. Mer only crawls into bed with him this early when she's having trouble sleeping. She'll talk on her own time, Dean's sleep schedule be damned.

"Uncle Sam's coming back," Mer says a few minutes later. There's a layer of complex, twisted emotion behind her words that Dean both hates and understands. No one can win in this standoff.

"Yeah," Dean agrees neutrally. These last couple of weeks have been nice. He's been spending most of his time with Mer and Whit (when she isn't disappearing which, come to think, she's been doing a lot). It's been simple. Easy. He hasn't been pulled in two different directions, hasn't had to mediate between Sam and Mer. He realizes now, first with the hunt and now at home, that the tension between Sam and Mer has been slowly quartering him day by agonizing day. That he's pulled taut between them with no recourse but to break apart because he _can not_ choose one over the other. He needs them both.

Dean pulls his daughter close and sends up a fervent wish to whomever might listen to jaded, brother-fucking hunters that his family comes through this rough patch more or less intact.

\---

Mer's dreams that night are frenetic and unformed. She keeps waking up, chilled and breathing hard, minutes after she manages to fall asleep. Once she wakes up reaching for something, tears in her eyes. She tries to remember her dreams but they fade away before she can catch them. She gives up around four in the morning and decides to meditate.

Mer takes a deep breath and turns her concentration inwards. She frowns at the chaos in her own mind; it's no wonder she can't sleep. She's too agitated to deal with it so she heads straight for the section of her mind that's Whit's. Whit exudes a sleepy, soothing feeling underscored by contentment. Mer sees it as a deep blue nebula, almost black in places, that parts for her in invitation. She can walk through the gentle mist to its center. Damien, who tends to manifest as a vibrant purple-pink, is at the core of Whit's contentment, buttressed up against the whole Winchester clan.

Whit isn't her only anchor; Dada and Atta are there too. Her city centers. Everything spirals out from the three of them. Dada tends to go from red to yellow to green depending on his mood—Mer laughs and wonders what her father would think if she compared him to a traffic light, even if the colors don't mean that. The thing she likes best about her father is he's rarely ever muddled or mixed, rarely emotionally confused. He's solid and dependable, for the most part. Lately though, he's been muted, which makes her sad because she's part of that and she doesn't know how to fix it.

Mer attributes a lot of her headaches to her parents: when one of her pillars is out of joint so is she.  Atta, when she can sense him, is like that all the time. He used to be an inspiring, balanced combination of gold-brown-green, a tall tower reaching high into the sky, his colors complementing Dada's beautifully. Now, he's more and more often a tarnished, sickly gold, though there are times he vacillates between a red so aggressive it burns, tinged with the deepest indigo, and a blinding white. Mer's never met anyone who's white before, because it represents a blankness, a malleability. Some people have streaks of it—a lot of the more advanced students in Atta's classes are like that because they're learning, open to new ideas and suggestions. Allowing themselves to be taught, molded and shaped by their professors and the knowledge. It's an environmental response. But it's never been as intense or complete as she's seen in Atta, and Mer doesn't know what that means. Neither did Grandma Mo. There are other colors lurking underneath, Mer can sense them, but she can't get past the superficial. Maybe if Atta let her in...

Mer shakes off those thoughts—never going to happen—and borrows some of Whit's calm. Mer follows her mother's influence outward, into the thoughts and memories she ties to Whit, arranging them in a way that makes sense and stills the disorder in her head. She drifts in her own mind, tidying up and pushing a few things that have slipped out of place in line. The chaos slowly starts to recede and she can breathe easy again. The frenetic swirl of thoughts becomes orderly. She could probably sleep now if she tries, though if she leaves now it will only be a temporary patch.

She's tried to explain this to all of her parents at one time or another, but none of them understand this mental housekeeping she does. Not even Atta, whose powers are closest to hers. Apparently, none of them need to do it the way she does, either. Whit had spouted off some crazytalk about Mer maybe being able to control her hormones and involuntary actions or whatnot, but Dada had put the kibosh on that particular experiment pretty quick.

Mer lets herself float on the twisting eddies of her consciousness. She sometimes gets flashes of things she's forgotten—memories from when she was younger, bursts of insight, impressions from her surroundings. Her travels take her to Dada's pillar, calm in sleep. He's having a good dream. Mer leans against him and for a moment she understands the whole of the world. The feeling recedes and she continues on. There are times when she thinks she's tapped into something large and unfathomable, perhaps greater than her understanding will ever be. But these rare encounters don't bother her.

She's drifting, enjoying the calm, when something dark and violent surges up, pushing at her external shields, and Mer jolts. Whatever it is disappears as quickly as it came, but it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. She checks her general surroundings for danger but there's nothing.

Her sleep is quiet after that, but she wakes feeling unsettled.

The last day of school is a joke. No one actually does anything except wait for the federally mandated number of school days to run out. Case in point: Mer spent the last class listening to Bonnie Erickson see just how graphic she could get with her innuendo-laden stories before Mrs. Sparks caught on. Mer's favorite had been the one about the "dice player" who was "vigorously shaking the dice" and had "opened his mouth wide to blow them."

"Mer! Mer! We're skipping and going to Doc Cotter's, come with!" Viv bounces down the hall, excited to be doing something dangerous and against the rules. Mer grins but shakes her head.

"Nah, promised Finn I'd stick with him. He's grounded for the first two weeks of break so, you know, this is actually the most freedom he's gonna have."

"Uh huh," Viv says skeptically. "I'm sure that's exactly why."

"What's that mean?" Mer asks, suddenly feeling defensive.

Viv waves her hand dismissively and mutters something along the lines of "Worst psychic ever."

"Oh, in that case, I'm not going to tell you Chelsea's about to leave you," Mer says archly.

"Shit! I'll see you later! Kisses!" Viv takes off for the side entrance to the school. Mer rolls her eyes and heads to the courtyard to track down her best friend.

There's practically no one here. Mostly a smattering of jocks whose coaches are trying to teach them a lesson, people who'd rather be at school than anywhere else, a few seniors already getting nostalgic, and a handful of nerds who are planning some kind of experiment for the summer months.

Finn's not in their usual corner or chatting up the dredges of the cheerleading squad. Mer frowns, wondering if Finn stood her up. It's not really his style, but she's at a loss until she spots him leaning against the wall with the vending machines, almost hidden in the shadows.

"Hey, whatcha doing over here?" Mer asks, slouching beside him. Finn shrugs and continues shredding the blade of grass that seems to have his complete attention. Mer shoulders into him lightly. "You okay?" Finn's lips tighten and a furrow appears on his brow. He still won't look at her. Mer stares at him, knowing Finn can feel it, and waits for him to crack.

"I...don't freak out."

"What—" Mer freezes as she catches sight of Finn's face. There's an ugly, livid bruise underneath Finn's eye and high on his cheekbone. Mer reaches out to touch but jerks her hand away when Finn flinches. _"Finn."_

"It's nothing," he says tightly.

"Finn, it's not nothing. What happened?" Finn shakes his head and refuses to answer. "Finn."

"Leave it alone, Mer," he orders. He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts to walk away. Mer follows him in dogged determination.

"Finn, you can't ignore this, it's not okay. Did you get in a fight? I'm not going to leave you alone, you're my—" Mer doesn't even realize she's opened herself to Finn until she gets the flash, a one-two punch of memory that's dark and wrong and terrifying. Finn quickly pushes it away but Mer's already seen. She feels her entire world crashing down around her.

"Mer. Mer. MER!" Mer looks up at him through her tears, but all she can see is John raging about Finn's drinking and his fist coming down, the flash of _wrong_ she'd felt last night and God if she'd _realized_ — "It's okay."

"It is not okay!" Mer yells, pushing Finn away. She's known Finn's dad her whole life. She's stayed over at their house, he's taken her to school.... The image of John hitting Finn brings a new flood of tears to her. She feels nauseated and light headed, the world spinning around her.

"Mer!" Finn grabs her by the arms and shakes her. "It was an accident, okay? He didn't mean it."

"That...that was not an accident, Finn," Mer says hotly. Finn stares over her shoulder, jaw set and eyes hard. "Finn, you know—"

"Leave it alone," he snarls, backing away. "I don't need your help."

Mer watches him walk away from her. If there are words that can make this situation better, she can't find them.

Sam's fingers drum tirelessly against the steering wheel. The miles fly by, the scenery changing into Iowa's familiar landscape. The sun paints the horizon in a brilliant hue of colors. He's almost home. Home. It brings a silly smile to Sam's face, the kind he hasn't been able to summon for far too long. Sam has a plan, he's no longer undecided. He's going to tell Dean...everything. About the visions, about the anger...about Mer. He's going to _talk_ to Dean and they're going to figure out what to do _together,_ even if he has to sit on Dean and endure chick-flick comments for the rest of his life.

Sam's feeling better than he has in ages, for once certain of his path, when the vision hits. His car runs off the road and into the guardrail, caught in a horror he can't stop reliving.

Finn's phone rings to voice mail for the fifth time. Mer sighs and leans her head against the window, staring out at her backyard. She has half a mind to drive to Finn's house and _make_ him talk to her, but John might be there and that could be bad. Dada's at the garage, Whit's at work thinking baby thoughts, Atta's getting closer by the minute. Her best friend won't talk to her. Christ, it's all so fucked up right now. The beep sounds and she starts talking before she can change her mind.

"Hey." Mer swallows and stares at nothing. "Finn. I...shit. Look, I'm sorry. I can't help knowing things sometimes, especially when it's you because I—I mean, if it were Viv or Chelsea I'd know too, but they're...yeah, look. I trust you. If you say it's nothing then I, I'll take that at face value and let it go. Shit happens. But I'm your best friend, Finn. I've told you, and if you're in trouble or you're hurt or anything is going on, _anything_ , you can tell me. So please. Call me. I just—I'll talk to you later." Mer hangs up and throws her phone on the table. This whole thing is fucked beyond belief.

The sun is setting in an unusually vivid riot of colors, but she can't bring herself to appreciate them. She should be celebrating the end of school. Instead, she's sitting here trying to figure out how to help her best friend. She closes her eyes against the tears that want to come. Crying really isn't her thing. Maybe...maybe if she pings Finn she can get a feel for what she should do? Or at least know if he's just busy or intentionally avoiding her call.

She can't breathe. Terror forms a steel band around her chest, constricting with every exhale. An overpowering feeling of wrongness chokes her, takes over her mind in an oily swirling mass. Pain, soul-deep, terror, confusion, anger, hate overpowers her and she loses herself in it.

It's Finn, underneath the fear. Mer can feel him struggling but he's fading fast. The world spins around her and it takes an interminable time for her to orient herself, to break free of the unexpected torrent.

 _Oh God, Finn._ Mer fights against the vertigo, trying to get her eyes to _focus_. Finn. Trouble. Fear. _Finn._ She gets a flash of John, mouth curled into an angry sneer, fist raised above his head before she manages to pull away to the safety of her own mind. She's slumped on the floor and her eyes don't want to focus.

"No no no no no no no," she chants, feeling around for her cell. Her fingers won't quite cooperate. She finds Finn's speed dial automatically. His phone goes straight to voice mail again. "FUCK!" Another wave of fear crawls over her. She needs to get to Finn before it's too late.

Mer's keys almost hit her in the head and every door in the house flies open at once. She's in the car and halfway to Finn's house when it registers that she's started the car, much less driven it. Her knuckles are a bloodless white where she grips the wheel, fingernails biting into the leather. She sees movement from the corner of her eye and jumps; the passenger window cracks.

Mer deliberately sucks in deep, even breaths and forces herself to relax, one muscle at a time. She can still feel Finn at the back of her mind, scared and desperate. The shrill sound of her phone makes her jump again and the passenger window explodes outward.

"Dad?" she answers shakily.

"Hey baby girl! I know you're celebrating, but Sam'll be home soon and—

"Finn's in trouble," Mer gasps and drops her shields. She hears her Dad stumble and swear and now his fear for her is bright in the back of her mind. She pulls up in front of Finn's house. All the lights are off. She just stares, nothing really making any sense. Someone's yelling at her.

"Mer! **Mer!** What the fuck is going on?" Mer has never in her life been so happy to hear her father's voice.

"Dad, it's Finn, he's in trouble, something's wrong, I have to help him, he's—"

"MARY!" The sharpness of Dean's voice cuts through her hysteria. "Where are you?"

"John, he's...Finn had this bruise and I had a vision and I know I'm not supposed to look but it was _right there_ and he was so mad and I couldn't let him just hurt like that—"

"Mer."

"—and I'm here, but there aren't any lights on, but Finn's scared, he's so scared—"

"MARY!"

"I have to help him." Mer gets out of the car; Dean can hear the loud warning ding that says she's left the keys in the ignition.

"Mary Winchester, you will not go in that house!" Dean orders, reaching out for her, opening himself wide as a last-ditch effort to calm her down and keep her from doing something stupid. Mary's fear slams into him and leaves him breathless. It's not all hers; he's getting some of Finn's fear distilled through Mer. He knows with chilling certainty that Mer's not going to listen to him.

"I have to," Mer whispers. Hands shaking, she pulls the emergency gun from under the seat and her blessed knife from the glove compartment.

“Don't you _dare_ go to that house alone!” Dean yells into the phone. He forgets how to breathe when he hears the familiar sound of the action sliding back on a Glock, a bullet settling into place. He swings the car into a sharp left, engine revving as he heads for Finn's. "I'm on my way, do not go in there!" Dean's grip tightens on the phone as his daughter makes a sharp sound of pain.

“Oh God, Finn, _Finn._ Dad, he's—you gotta come. FINN!” Mer drops her phone and Dean can hear her footsteps fading fast.

“GODDAMN IT, MARY!” Dean throws the phone in the passenger seat and the Impala kicks it up a notch. “Come on baby, come on, we gotta go save Mer-bear.” Dean keeps himself grounded by talking to his car. He almost loses control when Mer abruptly disappears. Something is blocking him, hiding her. He grabs his phone and dials Sam, but goes straight to voice mail. "Fuck, Sammy, where are you?"

\---

A fresh wave of pain sends Mer crashing to her knees. She retches on the well-kept lawn, her mind spinning as Finn disappears under a tidal wave of malevolence, the likes of which Mer had never felt before. It takes a minute for her to pull away, to block herself off from him again.

She climbs unsteadily to her feet, her training taking over. Gun out, knife at ready but not in the way, approach cautiously and be aware of your surroundings. She enters through the laundry room, straining to hear anything. The house is silent. Mer casts her mind out and tries to pinpoint any life. Elkin, Finn's cat, is hiding under the table. John is...Mer frowns and her heart starts racing. Hurt. John's hurt, bad, but that doesn't make sense, can't be right. She clears the kitchen and heads for the main hall.

John is sprawled on the floor bleeding from a deep head wound, but otherwise stable. There's a green-yellow bruise on one cheek bone and signs of chafing on his wrists. He's not the one who was attacking Finn, there's no hint of that kind of violence around him. She leans closer and probes deeper; there's a lingering taint on his skin, something unwholesome and dark, but it's an external influence.

A crash and a thump comes from the front of the house. Mer spins and trains her gun on the front doors, hovering protectively over John. She strains to hear if anyone's coming towards her position.

Silence.

She expands her senses and searches for Finn but the whole house comes up dead. She can't even feel John, not three feet away. Alarm niggles at the back of her mind but her worry for Finn drives her forward. She's about to head upstairs when she catches the echo of something from the den, right off the front door. She holds her breath and waits to see if it happens again but there's only psychic silence.

Carefully, she edges down the hall. Warm, golden light shines from beneath the door to the den. This is a trap. It has to be. But she can't leave it alone; Finn is still in the house somewhere, John is defenseless, and there's got to be a third person in the mix, whoever Finn is so scared of.

“Maaaaaarrrry,” a voice sing-songs. It sends a chill down her spine. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your best friend die?”

 _Fuck._ Forgetting everything that's been drilled into her since birth, she rushes into the room. Finn punches her hard enough to knock her off her feet.

White, colorless eyes stare down at her unconscious form.

"I think stories of your prowess have been greatly exaggerated," the demon possessing Finn says. The sound of squealing tires has his lips curling into a bright smile. "Daddy's here. And when Sammy makes three the fun can really begin."

 _Sam's caught in a nightmare he can't escape. He's running through a dark house, rays of sickly light sneaking through boarded-up windows. Sam knows this house, he's been here countless times before, dropping Mer off or picking her up or having dinner with John and Finn. He knows every room in this house, but every door only opens to one: the room where Dean dies._

 _He opens what should be the master bedroom and he sees the material of Mer's jeans turn dark with blood. In the guest room Dean breathes his last breath. Finn's room is a close up of the knife, blood dripping off the blade. The bathroom is Mer's sardonic little smile and her lips curling around Sam's name._

 _"NO!" Sam screams. "NO!" The animal darkness surges in him. He needs to go, needs to run, needs to protect. He knows he's run out of time, his epiphanies came to late._

 _Another presence coalesces beside him, his shadow._

 __"It's happening," _he tells himself._ "It's happening NOW."

 

Sam wakes up with a shout. The passenger side is destroyed but his car still runs. That's the only thing that matters. He has to get to Dean.

He has do whatever it takes to save him.

Finn's house is dark and quiet, a combination Dean hates. It _never_ bodes well. The front doors don't creak when Dean pushes them open. He keeps his gun pointed at the ground; he'd hate to accidentally shoot Mer's best friend.

Dean pauses when he catches sight of John curled on the floor. The man's breathing but there's a small pool of blood under his head. Dean's just about to check on him when he hears crying coming from his right. It's soft, muffled, as if the crier doesn't want anyone to hear. It's coming from the family room.

“Finn?” Dean calls, keeping his voice low. It's definitely not Mer crying, Dean would know that sound anywhere. Dean reaches out but still can't feel her, which is scaring him. A lot. “Mer? Finn?” He sidles in to the room but it's empty save for the long shadows thrown by the setting sun and a single dull yellow light in one corner. The hairs on Dean's neck stand on end. Something makes him look up. Mer's pinned to the ceiling. Dean's mind goes blank with horror.

“Dean Winchester. Finally.” An invisible force slams into him. Dean bounces off a wall and a shower of books follows him to the floor. He automatically brings his gun up towards the source of the voice, but the same forces knocks it from his hand.

 _Oh fuck,_ Dean thinks, getting a first look at his assailant. Finn's eyes are milky white and there's the faint stench of sulfur in the air. The demon smirks and looks at his bare wrist.

"Well. I think we've got a little bit of time on our hands. How about we get better acquainted? My name is Alistair."

"I'm going to send your demonic ass back to Hell," Dean growls through his pain. His shoulder isn't quite dislocated, but it's close. Hurts like a bitch. And his daughter is pinned to the fucking ceiling. As if reading his thoughts Alistair looks up.

"Ah, yes. Mary. She's very much your child, isn't she, Dean? Willful, disobedient. Can always be counted on to do the wrong thing in the name of right."

"Let her go!"

"Why, sure, Dean. All you had to do was ask!" Mer's body falls limply to the ground with a sickening thud.

"NO!" Dean struggles to get up but the demon's power presses heavy on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Alistair watches him with a sick sort of hunger and Dean realizes the bastard is getting off on this. Dean glares ineffectually as the demon runs his fingers through Mer's hair.

"Nothing broken," Alistair tells him. "Pity." The demon pulls back and punches Mer in the ribs. Dean hears them crack and screams in defiance.

"You son of a bitch!" Alistair gleefully presses the heel of his hand into Mer's side. She startles into consciousness. Her cry of pain rips through Dean. Mer rolls away from the source of her pain and scrambles backwards, taking in the demon wearing her best friend's body. Alistair grabs her ankle and jerks her back towards him, landing another blow against her ribs, same place. Mer collapses on the ground, gasping for air and trying not to throw up.

"MARY!" Dean yells in panic.

"None of that, Miss Winchester," the demon hisses. "You'll spoil the surprise, and you have no idea how long I've been planning this. It helps that your family is entirely predictable." Alistair approaches Dean and runs his fingers lightly over Dean's face. Dean flinches back and snarls. The demon lights up with malicious intent and Dean steels himself for a blow.

"Why can't I feel you?" Mer's voice is ragged and strained. Alistair tilts his head slightly towards Mer, fist still poised to strike. "I should have felt you." Alistair relaxes but Dean knows better than to think he's safe.

"Ah." Alistair indulgently pulls a pendant out from underneath his shirt. "You can do anything with magic if you're willing to pay the price. And I couldn't have you messing up my timetable, could I?"

"What timetable?" Mer challenges, desperate to keep the demon's attention away from her father. Dean's going to give her a talk about who should be distracting _evil demons from Hell_ in these situations.

"You think I'm going to waxing poetic about my master plan because I have an irresistible urge to feed my ego?" Alistair asks. He lets out a long suffering sigh. "Movies have quite devalued a good expository information dump, haven't they?"

"Don't let that stop you," Mer offers brightly. "I promise to appreciate you in the morning." The demon seems almost amused by Mer's bravado. Dean's going to kill her.

"Alright, since you insist: I'm going to slit your precious father's throat and it's going to bring about the end of the world." Mer's knife flies into Alistair's hand. In one fluid movement he draws the blade across Dean's throat, expertly angling the cut so it will take several agonizing minutes for Dean to die.

"NO!" Mer screams. Her fear fuels her enough to break the demon's paralyzing control. She's up on her feet in an instant, ignoring the the pull on her ribs. Mer tackles Alistair off her father and wrests the knife from him. They struggles briefly before Alistair plants his hand in Mer's ribs and throws her across the room. Mer rolls and crashes into the wall, dazed.

She struggles to sit up, using the wall as support. There's something hard trapped between her bak and the wall; it's her gun. Knife in one hand and gun in the other, she faces the demon and tries to brace herself for the very real probability that she'll have to shoot Finn.

"Well would you look at that," Alistair says, sounding deeply satisfied. "Perfection. Thanks for all your help, Mer-bear. I'll be seeing you around." Mer watches, wide-eyed, as the steps back into the shadows and disappears. She's missing something vital here, but doesn't have time to figure out what. Her father is bleeding to death.

"Dad. No no no, Dad, come on." She falls to her knees beside him and doesn't know where to start. Blood leaks from between his fingers where they're pressed against his throat. Her left hand, still holding the knife, rests lightly on his chest. There's a lot of blood on the floor. Too much. Some of it soaks through the knees of her jeans, warm and sticky. His heartbeat is barely a flutter and his eyes are glazing over. He clutches weakly at her arm. "Dad!"

An explosion shakes the house and Mer hunches protectively over her father. Without thinking she points the gun towards the door, ready to kill whatever came through the door, even if it's Finn. It takes a moment to recognize the tall, hulking figure. When she does, she smiles in relief. "Atta." He'll be able to make this all okay.

But when he steps forward, his eyes are black.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam pushes his car to the limit getting to Saybrook. He doesn't remember the trip, just vague flashes piercing the fog surrounding him. A cop tries to pull him over at some point, but he leaves it behind. He thinks he may have turned every traffic light green and shattered all of those facing the opposite direction.

He's reaching for Dean, but there's some sort of psychic interference between them; he only gets bursts of feeling like a staticy telephone call. Sam grits his teeth. It's Mer keeping them apart, separating him from Dean. The power is tinged with feminine energy. Every hole he tries to punch through is blocked and Sam can swear he feels amusement from her every time.

Every taste he gets of Dean is tinged with angry desperation. And then he goes completely off grid and Sam _lurches._ The world around him hitches and folds and then straightens out at the end of Finn's street.

Sam doesn't question this, just speeds down the street and stops in front of Finn's house, wheels squealing. It seems like the house is lit up from within, every window spilling light into the night. Sam moves on automatic; he knows this scene. He's dreamed this for the last thirteen years.

The front doors explode in, shattering into kindling with barely a thought. Sam doesn't hesitate, steps over the splintered wood and takes his first right. He bursts into the den where he sees his worst nightmare made flesh.

It's exactly like he dreamed it.

Mer points the gun at him, almost an afterthought, not even looking at him as she watches Dean fight for life. Dean, oh god, Dean's throat has been cut and there's blood everywhere. Mer turns to face him and her lips curl into an infuriatingly smug smile.

"Atta." The name enrages him, breathes air on the coals of an anger he's been fighting for too long now. Sam reaches down deep and summons all the power he can manage and then digs deeper. When he's holding so much it burns he steps forward.

He throws everything he has at her.

Mer slams back against the wall and screams. The hated knife that's haunted his every nightmare, red with Dean's blood, skitters over the floor. Sam destroys it with a thought, watches it crumple into nonexistence. Mer blinks at him, eyes unfocused and blood dripping down her face.  
Sam ignores her and turns to Dean. His heartbeat has slowed and his breathing is uneven. He's hovering on the threshold of life and death and Sam _will not let that happen._ Sam could heal him if he had enough power.

"Atta—" Mer gasps but he's not interested in any more of her lies. He shoves a psychic gag over her mouth and turns his attention inwards.

There's a part of himself he's been running from. A primal, dark drive that he's been scared of for a long time. No longer. He pushes deeper, spirals downwards. He rips the barriers and fences he's put up over the years away and he knows—he _knows_ —that he'll be strong enough to defeat anything when he's through. The power reaches up for him even as he reaches down for it, just one flimsy barrier keeping him away.

The dam breaks and Sam is consumed.

The little curl of demonic darkness that Azazel had buried deep in Sam, that had survived by feeding on Sam's petty frustrations and formed into a sea of pulsing anger, explodes outwards. It spreads like an infection, warping and twisting and taking over. With it comes a rush of tainted power, seductive and overwhelming.

Sam _vibrates_ with power. He can see it sparking off of him, feels it humming through his veins. He could do anything. Anything at all. And nothing on this earth would be able to stop him. He thinks about taking Mer out of the picture and she goes flying across the room. It takes about as much energy as blinking.

Sam reaches out for his brother. Dean isn't breathing. His eyes stare up at the ceiling, empty and lifeless. He looks dead, but Sam can see a small spark flickering in Dean's chest, fragile and fading, but there. He knows he can save it.

Sam places his hand on Dean's chest and sinks his power into the body he's spent years learning. He knows these nerve endings—what makes them flinch or sing with pleasure, where they're sensitive and where past traumas have deadened them. He wraps his will around everything that is Dean's physical presence in this world and makes the body breath, makes his lungs expand and contract. He pushes Dean's blood through his veins, orders his cells to replicate and _live._ He brings Dean back to life on a cellular level and moves outward. The torn skin of Dean's throat knits back together. Sam erases the wear of age, puts Dean together better than he was. Sam keeps pumping power through him; he has so much to spare. All the glass in the house shatters but Sam's senses are filled only with Dean.

Dean arches beneath him. He's alive, _wonderfully_ alive, green eyes wide and his red lips open. Sam keeps pushing. He wants...he wants to give Dean a part of him. If he does that, there's nothing in this world that could take him away from Sam.

Sam leans down and presses his nose to Dean's neck, inhales deeply. He stores away the scent; he'll never forget it, and he'll always recognize Dean.

"S-sssss..." Dean can't make his throat work, but Sam understands. He hears the plea in Dean's voice; he wants more of what Sam's offering.

Dean sucks in a lungful of air and tries again, "Ssssssst—topp. Staaah!" Sam hears Dean's cry of pain as an outpouring of exquisite pleasure.

"Never again," Sam promises. Dean's soul burns Sam's eyes, a riot of incandescent colors. Sam reaches out and touches it. It hurts him in the best ways. "Never."

Sam runs his fingers over a gold thread in Dean's soul, and Dean arches like a bow, eyes squeezed shut. So beautiful. So alluring, even newly recovered from the brink of death. Sam can't see his own soul, but he imagines it sings in counterpart to Dean's, complimentary in every way. He couldn't be farther from the truth.

\---

Mer's chest burns with every breath and her head throbs; she can taste blood in her mouth and swallows thickly. She pushes up on her knees and fights down the urge to vomit; the room around her swims drunkenly. She can't remember—something important and—there's blood on her jeans. Her hands. What—

She looks up and gasps. She's never seen a possessed person before, but Atta _has_ to be. She sees him like double vision, human flesh with a seething mass of darkness underneath it. Even at his angriest Atta's never looked...like that. It's wrong on a visceral, human level.

A tendril of darkness extends from Atta and reaches out for her father. It touches him and subsumes the light, colors withering and fading wherever it goes. She has to stop it.

Sam's so immersed in Dean he doesn't sense the attack until it's too late. The statue connects solidly with his temple and knocks him out cold. Mer stares at the deep gash on his head, seeping blood. Something in her just...stops processing. This is not happening, this can't be happening. This can't—

"MER."

"Dad." She grips his arms and stares at him. He's alive. There's blood on his neck and soaked into his shirt, some in his hair, but he's alive and breathing and not bleeding. They need to leave. Now. "Dad. We have to go, we have to—" Mer tugs on him weakly, every little movement burning painfully, but he won't move. The room tilts dangerously and Mer realizes dimly there's something very, very wrong with her.

"Not without Sammy," Dean says, swaying on his feet. They can barely keep each other upright, and Dean staggers when Mer falls into him.  
No, that's wrong. Mer closes her eyes against the throbbing pain settling in her head. The image of eyes that glow with a menacing, angry green hue swims across her vision. They can't take him; if they take Atta, bad things will happen. They have to go alone, they have to run far, far away.

"Dad," Mer pleads. She can barely form a sentence. There's something loose in her head. She pulls her father around to face her. He looks wild and unkempt and completely frayed. "Dad. It's not Atta. _It's not him._ We have to go. He's too strong."

"I can exorcise—"

"It's not a demon! It's something else! Stronger, spreading, Dad, _please._ " Dean looks from his daughter to his Sam. He's exactly where he never wanted to be, forced to choose between the two of them. They're his to protect, and he's failed them both. Sam's possessed by some super demon and Mer's hair is dark with blood, she can barely breathe, and there are tears carving a path down her dirty cheeks. “We can't fight him if he wakes up.”

"I'm coming back for him," Dean says, agony in every word. A dull ache spreads through him. Jesus, he's going to leave Sam here. Mer nods, choking on her tears, tugging him towards the door. "I'm coming back." He grabs her arm and hauls ass out of the house.

John and Finn are nowhere to be seen. In Dean's experience that means they're probably dead, but there's nothing he can do for them right now.

\---

Mer's not doing well. She starts stumbling, leaning more and more on her father for support, unable to coordinate her various limbs. The world fades in and out of focus on a whim.

"Mer? Mary!" Dean leans her up against the Impala and checks her eyes. Her pupils are blown and reactions sluggish. "Jesus, Mer, not now. I need you to stay with me, baby girl. Come on."

"M-migraine," Mer slurs, trying to focus on him. It's a gross oversimplification of what's currently going on in her head but it's the best she can do at the moment.

"I know. I know," Dean soothes. He lays her carefully on the back seat and pulls a rumpled, long-forgotten jacket over her. Her skin is clammy and she's pale; it's possible she's going into shock.

Dean gets the Impala started and peels away from the cursed house. He needs...a plan. A course of action. He needs Mer safe so he can go get Sam. Dean pulls out his cell phone and starts dialing.

"Hello?" a sleepy voice answers.

"Where are you?" Dean asks Whit tersely.

"Home. What—"

"Get the emergency bags. Meet me at the Ashton safe house." He hears Whit's startled breath but she doesn't ask questions. They've been prepared for this eventuality for years; they all know what to do. Dean ends the call and tries to get Mer to talk to him.

"You and Whit are going to the safe house, Mer-bear. I know Sam knows them, so whatever's got him knows them to, but he doesn't know which one so you should be okay. You hear me? Mer? Come on, give me something, baby girl. Let me know you're awake back there."

"'s Atta in parts," Mer mumbles; Dean can barely hear her. "Shrapnel trynna be a whole."

"What was that? Mer?" He hits a pothole and Mer screams in pain. Dean speeds up.

The safe house looks like an old, run-down barn from the outside. On the inside it's heavily warded and stocked with emergency credit cards, canisters of gas, medical gear and hunting equipment. Whit's already there when Dean pulls up, one of her hospital-improved first aid kits with her. She gasps at the sight of Mer, glassy-eyed and obviously in pain.

"Mer! Jesus, Dean, what happened?" Whit assesses her with efficient competence. She's practiced her skills on the Winchesters more times than she can count over the years, but never on Mer. It makes her hands shake as she gently checks her pupils and reactions. "Dean, I think she's in shock."

"I was afraid of that," Dean says grimly. "Let's get her inside." Dean picks his daughter up and follows Whit into the safe house. Together they wrap her ribs; several ugly bruises are already starting to show. When they're done Whit bundles her in all the blankets she can find and stuffs it full of chemical warming bags.

"I've got to go find Sam," Dean announces once they've tucked Mer away. He swats Whit's hands away and uses a towel to wipe himself down.

"Where is Sam?" Whit asks, watching Dean arm himself with enough firepower to take on a small army.

"Sam's possessed," Dean says flatly. He ignores Whit's dismayed gasp and the emotions that want to fight through the shields he's had up since he first felt Mer's overwhelming terror. "This place is protected against demons but not...not whatever has Sam. You don't tell anyone where you are, you hear me? Not even Damien."

"Yes, right. No outside communication." Dean grabs an anti-demon kit and moves towards the door. Whit stops him with a hand on his arm. "Whatever happens, you come back, Dean Winchester."

"I'm _going_ to save Sam." Dean's tone dares her to say anything to the contrary. Whit stares him down, lips pressed into a thin line.

"That little girl needs you too," Whit reminds him. Dean swallows and finally nods once, decisively. Whit's eyes water and she pulls him into a fierce hug. Dean stiffens for a moment before hugging her back just as strong. It's a testament to how shaken they both are that they let the moment go without comment.

"We'll see you soon," Whit orders. Dean walks to his car and doesn't look back.

Sam goes from unconscious to alert without anything in between. He touches his temple and the skin underneath his fingers knits together. He stands, testing and flexing each muscle...and liking what he feels. He raises his hand and studies it like he's never seen it before. He hasn't, not like this. He sees his hand, but he can look deeper than normal human senses. He can see the muscle and the bone; the rush of blood in his veins; the _power_ that flows through it.

He extends his senses outwards and he finds Dean easily. He calls to Sam and stands out like a beacon against a dreary, worthless world. He's coming to Sam, which makes Sam's job a lot easier. Bless his predictable, overprotective older brother. Satisfied Dean is alright, Sam searches for Mer. He growls, frustrated, as he comes up with nothing. He should be able to find her taint as easily as he found Dean's brilliance. He switches over to Whit, knowing she's the first person Dean would call, but Whit's gone too. Fucking tattoos. There has to be a way.

Frustrated, Sam casts about for something, anything, the smallest clue. His mind soars over Saybrook, covering miles of ground in mere seconds. Even with his powers that's inefficient and time consuming. Frustrated, Sam forces himself to calm down. Thinks logically. If he were Dean, what would he do? Where would he go?

A safe house. He'd go to one the safe houses, even if Sam knows where they are. Sam starts checking them one by one. There are five fully functional safe points within a reasonable distance. He jumps from one to the other, searching them, tearing down wards that are laughably flimsy, but comes up empty every time. They have to be in one of them, he knows Dean and he'd believe the safe houses were their best option, particularly as he's out driving around Iowa looking for Sam. He starts over, more slowly this time. He's on the third house when something glimmers on the edge of his awareness.

Mer Bear. It resonates with an echo of Mer, faint but very real, at the house on Ashton Drive. _Perfect._ He hooks a mental tracker into the bear, a thread that will lead him straight to it wherever it might go. Spreading out, he finds something that dully feels of Whit—her car. Within the car is a cell phone that he marks as well. You can never be too careful. Sam smiles to himself. Soon. They'll be free soon.

But for now, he has to make sure Dean stays out of the way. Wouldn't do to have him hurt himself because he doesn't understand yet.

Whit obsessively checks Mer's bandages even though she knows they're fine. She hates feeling helpless. Mer whimpers and the skin around her eyes and mouth tighten. Whit would love to give her a shot of painkiller but they can risk Mer being insensate if something attacks them.

"It's okay," Whit murmurs, running her hand lightly over the curve of Mer's skull. Mer's eyes flutter open but they don't focus on any one thing. "It's going to be okay."

"The clocks of the long now aren't ticking," Mer says. Whit can't say why, but the words send a chill down her spine.

"Mer, my lovely, you aren't making much sense." Whit tries to keep her tone light. "Try to get some sleep."

"Last sleep forever," Mer agrees, and her eyes slide shut. Whit frowns because that sounds unnecessarily ominous. Mer whimpers and grabs Whit's shoulder. Her grip is so weak. "He knows."

"I don't...you're not making any sense, Mary." Mer opens her eyes and Whit gets lost in them.

 

Whit was standing in a silent field. The landscape around her was...infected. Veins of dark, diseased soil wound through healthy ground. Where the taint touched, vibrant plants of unimaginable beauty withered and desiccated.

"How do you stop a flood that's already here?" Whit started and spun around. Mer stood regally behind her, hair golden blonde and falling gracefully to her shoulders. She wore a green dress and looked...older. Where she stepped the infection faded into nothing. She brushed past Whit, looking at something in the distance. Whit turned and followed her gaze—

They were standing under the tallest tower Whit had ever seen. It rose into the sky without end. Beyond it, she could see two other towers rising in the distance, one blue and the other gold. Mer had once said that's how she saw Whit and Dean. Could...three towers, three parents... Whit turned back to the dark tower.

It had large cracks running up the side and was the same oily black as the diseased ground. A loud groan came from above. A strong hand reached out and pulled Whit back as a huge stone fell from the sky. It hit like a drop of water, splattering into pieces when it struck the ground. With horror, Whit realized the tower was the source of the wrongness in this landscape, the dark stain spreading even as she watched.

"Pollution is a serious problem in the twenty-first century." Mer was decked out in military fatigues, her hair in a tight bun. There was a scar on her forehead where she was hurt in the real world.

"Is this...is this Sam?" Whit asked, voice catching on the words. Mer tilted her head to the side and gazed up, up, up.

"Not anymore." When she looked back at Whit her scar was longer, curving down around her eye. And black. With every heartbeat the taint spread, the darkness spidering outwards through her veins.

“Samael,” Mer breathed. The word made the world around them shudder. The air became so cold Whit's breath was thick in the air; ice coated her hair and frost covered the ground. Mer seemed untouched.

"Why are we here, Mer? What's going on?" Whit asked, drawing in on herself for warmth.

"He knows," Mer answered, and touched two fingers to Whit's forehead. Images crashed through Whit's mind, tumbling one over the other. She saw Sam's eyes turn black, then yellow, then white. Mer Bear with a fishing hook through its head, the line leading away. Whit's car with a hook through it too, and her cell, and Mer's cell, all caught by the same fisherman. Mer plucked the line and they zoomed along it till they reached the very end where—Sam. It was Sam, looking at Whit with knowing, vicious yellow eyes.

 

Whit comes back to the real world with a scream. Sam knows exactly where they are.

Dean heads back towards Finn's house because it's the last place he saw Sam and the only lead he has. If he's lucky, Sam will still be out cold on the floor. Dean's never been particularly lucky, though.

"Hey, Dean." Dean swears and swerves off the road. The Impala dies with a stuttering cough.

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean demands. He looks over at his brother, somehow materialized in the passenger seat, and freezes. Sam's eyes are yellow.

"Don't worry, it's not permanent." Sam pets the dashboard soothingly, almost apologetically. He shoots Dean a sardonic little smile and Dean can almost convince himself this is his Sam. "I just need you out of the way for a while. So I can make everything right." A chill runs down Dean's spine.

"What....what does that mean?" Sam smiles at him pityingly. Dean forces himself not to flinch back from the sight of those eyes. Sam leans over and crowds him back against the door. Dean closes his eyes.

Sam still smells like Sam, warm and earthy. Sam's lips ghost against Dean's, and that's familiar too. His hand running over Dean's chest, the way he touches...all of it is _Sam._ But when Dean reaches out, just a tentative psychic brush, it's emphatically _not Sam_ that he feels.

"You're not going to like the answer," Sam says. "Don't think about it."

"Sam," Dean says desperately, filled with foreboding. He gets a flash of violence, of Mer dead on the ground, and his heart races.

"It's for your own good." The air warps around Sam and he disappears.

"SAM!" Dean yells at nothing. "SAM!" Swearing, Dean scrambles out of the car. He pops the hood of the Impala and starts trying to fix whatever Sam broke.

\---

Dean screams obscenities at the air and kicks a tire. Whatever Sam's done to his car isn't something Dean can fix. He'd better not have done what he did to the circuitry of Dean's phone, which looks like someone poured acid on its insides.

Dean slumps against the side of the car. He looks up to the sky, a thousand points of light twinkling merrily away.

"If you're up there listening, now would be a REALLY FUCKING GOOD TIME for some divine intervention!" Dean starts as his car suddenly roars to life. "Holy shit." Dean's not one for looking a gift horse in the mouth while his brother is insane and his daughter is in mortal peril, but he does file the incident away for later review.

He spins the car around and heads back to the safe house as fast as the Impala can go.

"I'm sorry," Whit mutters under her breath, coaxing a few more miles per hour out of her car. "So sorry, Mer-bear." This has been her chant for the last ten minutes, speeding away from the safe house in a blind panic. She drives like Hell itself is on her ass—which it very well might be. She's going too fast when a figure materializes in front of the car and she swerves instinctively to avoid it.

She wakes to the smell of burning plastic.

Whit stumbles out of the car. There's blood running down her face and she thinks she may have a mild concussion.

"Hello, Whitney." Sam's still standing in the middle of the road, hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes glow in the dark. Fear tries to take over, but Whit forces it away—she has to keep her wits about her.

"'Hello, Whitney?' THAT'S all you have to say to me?" Whit glares at Sam and he has the audacity to smile bashfully at her and scuff the ground with the toe of his shoe.

"Sorry about the car. That was an accident."

"The... _the car?_ " Sam remains silent and gives Whit a challenging look. "I'm not sure I buy that."

"I don't need you to," Sam says dismissively. "Give me Mer."

"Why are you doing this?" Whit asks plaintively.

"Mer killed Dean. I brought him back. I won't let her do it again." Whit shakes her head in denial.

"Mer would _never_ —"

"I'm sorry you'll have to see this, but I promise to make it quick." He moves for the car but Whit steps in front of him.

"Sam, you have to see how crazy this is," she reasons desperately. "You're...you're _infected_ and it's warping your thinking—NO!" Sam shakes her off like an annoying bug. Whit remains silent as Sam approaches the car. He looks into the backseat and pauses. He reaches in and pulls out Mer Bear.

"I don't want to hurt you. Dean wouldn't want that," Sam says conversationally.

"And Dean wants you to hurt his daughter?" Whit asks incredulously. Sam glares but Whit thinks she can detect a hint of the real Sam behind the angry facade. "Dean will _never forgive you_ if you kill Mer. I don't care what you are to each other. You can't come back from that, Sammy."

"She's dangerous," Sam counters, reaching up to touch Whit's cheek. He sounds almost...sad. Apologetic. "And _wrong._ Mer's like a rabid dog. I can't leave her alive; she'll destroy him. And I won't have that." A tear escapes Whit's rigid control.

"You're already doing a pretty good job of that yourself, Sam." Whit feels a sense of calm come over her, looking at Sam's unnatural eyes. She doesn't know what's happened to him, but this is not the Sam Winchester she knows and loves. Where ever that Sam is hiding, she hopes he'll forgive her for what she's about to do. "I'm not going to let you hurt my little girl."

"I know," Sam says, and he sounds almost sad. Not about killing Mer, rather about how it's going to affect Dean and, to a lesser extent, herself.

Whitney's been a nurse long enough to know that second chances don't come often. When she lost her family she built a new one, strange as it might be, and she swore to keep them as safe as she could. Which is why long ago, when she was still dealing with the idea that evil creatures existed and her protector had _powers_ , she did research. To understand what was out there, what could threaten the people she loved. To know how she might protect them. Her research led her to a man named Marcus whose powers had driven him to seclusion, who had acquiesced to her demands because he knew her determination and her heart.

She had always known she was the weak link in the Winchester's armor. Even when Mer was a kid she instinctively protected herself and those around her. Dean and Sam lived and breathed the supernatural. So Whit had taken it upon herself to ensure that she could never be used against her family. Though she'd never thought she'd be protecting them from Sam.

 _I love you, Mer-bear,_ she thinks with all her might. _Never forget that._ She thinks she feels some kind of acknowledgment from very far away, but Whit isn't paying attention. She's going to buy Mer and Dean the time they need to get away. Whit closes her eyes and dives into herself, searching for the little bundle Marcus had left in her mind.

"Dean's going to need you," Sam is saying, "but you'll both understand when it's over." Whit finds what she's looking for and pulls it open. The mental grenade explodes out, sending Sam hurling deep inside his own mind.

Whitney Steton's last act on Earth is tinged with bleak satisfaction.


	6. Chapter 6

They look like incandescent beacons, blinding brightness against a barren, savaged mindscape. What was once a well-ordered, healthy mind is now chaos and disorder. The ground beneath their feet rolls with aftershocks, each ripple shaking the structure of this mind even more. Pieces break loose, shift and get lost.

Two towers stand as sentinels on the horizon, one a gash against the sky, suppurating darkness; the other is inflamed with emotional torment. They stand before a crater where a third tower used to stand, strong and indefatigable. The results of its destruction can be seen in everything around them. There are deep cracks in the ground leading away from it, the entire mindscape turning unstable without its supports in place.

They've been watching this family, this girl, for so long. Seeing them like this, the evidence of their once tight-knit family falling apart at the seams, hurts in ways he's never felt in his years of existence. They could have stopped this. They could have saved Whitney Steton.

"They would have stopped us, Castiel." He doesn't react, just stares down at the hole Whitney has left in Mary Winchester's life, in her mind. "What we're doing now is dangerous enough."

"Is there enough to save?" he asks. The darkness recedes from where they stand, unable to withstand the purity of their Grace, but theirs is a small patch amongst the encroaching taint.

"There has to be," Anael—his mentor, superior, guide—answers, "or we are lost." She kneels and touches the ground beneath her, a physical manifestation of Mary Winchester's ravaged mind, but real nonetheless. She feels a brief flair of recognition that dissipates into the ether. The truth of that memory is lost somewhere. They are running out of time.

They hear a sharp crack and their attention is drawn to the dark tower in the distance. Sam's anchor in Mer's mind, his gateway to her soul, an advantage which he is using to poison the girl he sees as his greatest threat to Dean. It spews thick black smoke into the air, reminiscent of an incorporeal demon, a dense fog that begins turning Mer's mind dark and lethal.

"Draw your sword, Castiel, and lead the way," Anael orders. Castiel hesitates, unaccustomed to leading an archangel in battle.

"Anael—"

"I cannot lead in this," Anael says curtly. "You are the one Mary Winchester must learn to trust. It begins here. Go, Castiel. She is running out of time, and I must guide Dean to safety." With a short nod, Castiel spreads his wings and hurtles towards the tower that represent Sam and everything he is to Mary. The land he passes over turns healthy, healed by his grace. It fights against the decay, but between Sam's taint and Whit's death, the healthy patches are being slowly eaten away.

Castiel lands beside the corrupted tower and shivers. The oily feeling of demonic taint crawls over him, settles between the feathers of his wings and tries to corrupt him. In all his years of existence he's never felt anything so profane.

Sam's tower is crumbling from the foundation up. Darkness oozes from the join of the stones onto the ground and into Mer's mind. Sam is a cancer they need to excise before Mer is lost, and with her their hope. They need both Dean and Mer healthy and whole to combat the horrors Sam will unleash on the world.

A flicker captures Castiel's attention.

A young girl, no more than six, uses a brightly colored plastic bucket to scoop tainted soil and throw it back towards the tower. She's carving out a moat around the structure, the small furrow she's already dug out filling with black ichor. Castiel sheaths his sword and cautiously approaches the child.

"Mary?" Castiel says softly. He kneels beside her, but the girl doesn't stop her motions. Her lips are pressed together in concentration. "Mary Winchester?" Castiel reaches out and touches her. She screams and flails with the bucket, striking him in the head. Castiel reels, pain exploding along his entire body, another sensation he is unaccustomed to. The girl frowns at him, then dismisses him completely and goes back to her digging.

"That is inefficient," Castiel says. He's ignored. Castiel glares. He's trying to help and being summarily dismissed. "There are better ways to accomplish what you are attempting to do. I would be happy to instruct you on the most efficient way to partition and remove Sam from your mind."

The glare Mary turns on him is, in Castiel's opinion, completely unwarranted. The ground beneath him trembles with anger. Castiel feels he's missing something significant here, something that Anael would understand, but she has left this task to him and he must prove himself worthy. Castiel spreads his arms wide. "I only wish to help," he says.

The girl returns to her digging. A lime green bucket appears beside her. Castiel hesitates for a moment and then kneels beside her and digs.

Bobby wakes up when every phone in his house starts ringing all at once. He regards them with suspicion. Either something's gotten through his defenses or shit's going down.

He picks up the line no one's supposed to know about.

"Any other time and I'd tease you for being predictable," Missouri says in greeting, but she can't disguise the tension in her voice.

"You wanna tell me why every phone I own is ringing off the hook?" Bobby prods. He starts the coffee pot and, after a moment, the spare one two.

"It's bad, Bobby. It's real bad. It's—"

"The Winchesters," Bobby says with a sigh, because it's always the Winchesters. Only they could come up with some kind of clusterfuck that has the whole hunting world calling him.

"Bobby...I think the world's ending."

Bobby swears and then starts digging around for his third coffee pot. He'll be going into this apocalypse well caffeinated, thank you very much.

Whit's death feels like a heart attack. Dean's extremities go numb, his chest tightens and his breathing stutters. He manages to slam on the breaks before he runs off the road, but it's a near thing. When the physical symptoms pass, the empty psychic echo that Whit's filled for seventeen years is just as painful, but with no means to soothe the ache away.

Oh God.

Dean sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. Whit's dead. The world looks like it's underwater, and Dean realizes he's crying. He adds hyperventilating to his list of symptoms when he remembers Whit was with Mer. Shit. _Shit._

Dean curses himself a fool for leaving them. He should have stayed. It's his job to protect his family, and he's let them all down. Every single one. Dean slams his palm into the wheel in anger.

He makes it back to the safe house faster than he should. There's no car out front, but it's still standing.

The shack is empty. All the lights are off and there's no one on the couch. This doesn't make any sense, because if—Dean takes a deep breath. If Sam killed Whit and Mer was with Whit then he would have killed Mer too. Mer isn't dead. Which means she wasn't with Whit. Whit...stashed her somewhere.

Everything seems to snap into place in Dean's head and he rushes to the small closet in the back.

The blankets look like they've been tossed down and forgotten on the floor. Dean's hands are shaking as he reaches for them, thanking every deity that comes to mind for Whitney Steton. And Jesus Whit _hurts._ Dean realizes how thoroughly unprepared for Whit's death he is. Whit...Whit was always going to be there. She was his constant, _Mer's_ constant when Dean and Sam eventually got themselves killed.

Dean forgets to breathe as he pulls the blanket down and reveals Mer's hair. She's okay, safe, Whit made sure of that. His relief is short lived.

There's blood trickling out of Mer's ears and nose. She's completely non-responsive, her head lolling back when Dean picks her up. Dean tries to open himself to her, but he's too raw from Whit's death and all he gets is psychic static. He pries one eye open but gets no response.

Dean's operating on instinct and all he knows is he's got to get her away from here. Sam, wherever he is, knows where they are. Knows all their safe houses, knows _him._ Killed Whit. Dean feels every moment of indecision weighing on him.

He could go to Bobby's.

The thought springs from deep in Dean's subconscious, unmotivated. It's strange enough to make Dean pause and take note, his paranoia making him second guess the impulse to go. This could be Sam setting a trap. Getting Dean to hand over Mer on a silver platter. Dean shoves the emotion that wells up to one side; he has to be clinical about this. Detached. He has to do what Dad taught him, examine the evidence, weigh his options and make the best choice.

 _Go to Bobby's,_ his subconscious insists again. _Help is there._

The impulse feels right. It doesn't feel like the taint Dean had sensed on Sam. Still, Dean is hesitant, not in part because he doesn't want to put Bobby in danger.

 _Bobby has protections. He'll be in no danger,_ the little voice in his head answers. _You have nowhere else to go._

And that, Dean realizes, is the true crux of the matter.

He carefully settles Mer in the backseat of the Impala, blankets tucked tight around her. He methodically clears the safe house of all the weapons and provisions and packs three emergency bags into the trunk. He thinks as little as possible as he pulls out into the night and heads for the last home he has.

Castiel's hands are raw by the time their moat circumscribes the tower. All of his attempts to talk to Mary have been met with silence. So he digs at her side, aware of time passing both here in her mind and outside in the real world.

Castiel steps aside and allows Mer to dig the last few bucketfuls that connect the two ends of the moat. Immediately black liquid oozes to fill the furrow. They both watch as the darkness fills and then spills over the moat's boarders. Mer tilts her head back and screams.

The world around him shifts and a teenager, dressed in an over-sized shirt and ripped jeans, is building a wall brick by brick to keep the tower contained. Her movements are sharp and jagged, filled with desperate anger. Castiel steps closer and Mary turns on him.

"Who the fuck are you?" She holds the trowel like a knife, prepared to defend herself. This is her mind, so Mary could very well cause serious harm to Castiel should she wish.

"I am Castiel." Mary stares at him expectantly. Castiel stares right back.

"And?" Mer prompts sarcastically. Castiel doesn't know what to say to that. Mer sneers. "What are you doing in my head?"

"He's with me." Mary throws the trowel at Anael before the first syllable is fully uttered. Anael snatches the tool out of the air faster than the human eye can track. Mer cocks her head to one side and studies the newest intruder.

"I know you," Mer says slowly, tasting the words. An unfriendly smile crosses her face. "You're...Hannah." Mer says the name with gleeful maliciousness. Anael snarls softly and Castiel wonders at the response. He's never seen her react to anything without perfect poise and control. That this human girl can get such a reaction unsettles him.

"You remember," Anael says, regaining her composure.

"You never did tell me why you hate Hannah so much," Mer says conversationally. Castiel notices that behind her the wall is building itself. He could tell her that her efforts will be as ineffectual as the moat, but he feels that will go over about as well as his last attempt to help.

"My name is Anael. You may call me _Anna_ if you wish," Anael growls, her eyes glowing. Where most creatures would cower under an archangel's wrath, Mary Winchester smirks laconically.

Castiel cannot believe the audacity of this human child. He draws himself up and thunders, "You are in the presence of Anael, one of the seven archangels of the Host of Heaven. You will show respect!"

"I don't remember your friend here being a part of your merry band of assholes, but he'd fit riiiight in," Mary drawls, filled with teenage insolence.

"He is my protégé," Anael says with a fond look for Castiel.

"Is that angel for winged dick-in-training? Cause he's got the dick part down." Castiel steps forward, his sword in hand; He will not be insulted by this broken human whose mind is falling apart around them, who they have come to save at great risk to themselves. He's suddenly looking at a much older, harder version of the teenager. There are scars on her arms, another running across her face. She watches him with a predator's eyes and he realizes this is the protector, the fighter. The hunter her parents hoped she'd never have to be.

"We are here to help you," Anael says sharply, putting a restraining hand on Castiel, "not to antagonize."

"I'm doing fine on my own," Mary retorts and turns back to her wall. Even as it builds itself the darkness is already crawling over it, through it.

"You've built your mind around people," Anael says gently. "You tied your well-being to them. One is dead. The other is infected. Your mind will not survive."

"Dad's going to save Atta," Mary insists, faith in her father complete. Her form wavers between the Hunter and the Child.

"Even if he does," Anael presses, "what will you do when they eventually die?" The world around them shakes and rolls. Castiel stumbles, but Anael stands firm. The Teenager is back, glaring at them with fierce defiance.

"You must learn to exist on your own. Can you not feel the infection in your own mind?" Mer turns to look towards the tower that represents Dean, the last intact anchor of her mind.

"I don't want to lose him," she whispers, once again the young child trying to use a bucket to hold back the sea.

"Then you will die," Anael says bluntly, "and lose him regardless." Mer starts shaking. Her form cycles through different facets of her personality, all of them torn. Anael watches, eyes sharp with an inherent understanding of humanity Castiel lacks. With the air of a predator closing on its prey, Anael plays her last card. "If you die, you could take him with you."

When Mary turns around she's once again the Hunter. Sentimentality has no place here. Behind them the dark tower rumbled and shakes, then starts to collapse in on itself. The shock waves from its unsteady descent force Anael and Castiel to their knees.

When it's over it's as if the tower was never there, save for a perfectly circular scar in the dark, soiled ground. Castiel feels his still unfamiliar face contort on its own as shock settles through him; Mary Winchester should not have been able to do that on her own.

"Fix me," she orders. One of her eyes is black and the taint of Sam's influence highlights the veins beneath her skin. "Now." Together, Castiel and Anael work at the arduous, painstaking task of healing Mary's mind and freeing her from her last remaining anchor.

A shadow peels away from the darkness and glides towards the bodies crumpled on the side of the highway. Others follow, dressed in the shells of people from all walks of life. They form a circle around the car and the bodies, eyes red and black and yellow.

A demon in a young girl's body slinks up, her eyes milky white. She grins down at the broken body of the woman, eyes glazed in death. She trails her hand through the woman's hair, the gently innocent gesture contradicting the nature of the creature inhabiting the child. She starts humming _Mary Had a Little Lamb,_ and her lips twist up in a feral smile.

A ripple winds amongst the demons, an acknowledgment of power. The humming stops.

"She's still all warm and life-like," the little girl giggles, tracing runes and sigils over dark skin. Even though they're only hinted at, dark power lingers around them. "We could leave such a surprise."

"A waste of power," a deep voice contradicts the girlish tones. The assembled lower demons part like water for the newest arrival.

"You ruin all my fun, Alistair," the child pouts, crossing her arms stubbornly and looking up, up, up.

"Inferi are child's play, Lilith," he responds, irritated with her airs. He hates it topside. The air's too clear and human bodies are so frail. Playing with souls is much more satisfying. "I thought we were here to start the Apocalypse." Lilith's fickle attentions shift to Sam, nearly dead from the human's unexpected actions. She coils a lock of hair around her finger and hums, a sub-human sound pitched too low for the normal human ear to hear. It resonates in Alistair's teeth, travels up through his bones. The smell of sulfur invades the air. Their army of demons stir restlessly. Hell is close to the surface, the walls of reality rubbed thin.

"We will have to rebuild him," Lilith says, letting her hand trail across Sam's face. She pokes him in the forehead and his head falls to one side. There's blood coming out of his ears. "He's damaged."

"Nothing the Ritual won't fix," Alistair says dismissively.

"There's one thing the Ritual won't fix. Dean is still alive, Alistair," Lilith pouts. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger. "You said you'd kill him for me. You _promised._ His spawn's still around too."

"The one mistake in an otherwise perfect game," Alistair sighs dramatically. "But look on the bright side: Sam is far stronger that we gave him credit for. Do you know what that means?" Lilith smiles and claps with childish glee; Alistair can practically taste the chaos and destruction she has planned.

"Let's welcome little Samael to the fold," Lilith croons. A dozen hands heft Sam's limp body up and carry him into the darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

Bobby greets him like Dean shows up with an unconscious teenager every day by slinging a hex bag over his head. Dean is so fucking grateful for Bobby's stoicism that he could kiss the man—okay, maybe just a very firm hug. But it's nice to have a spot of normalcy even as his world is falling down around his ears.

Bobby holds the door open for Dean. Missouri and a woman Dean's never met ushers him upstairs, Mer nestled in his arms. Dean's vaguely aware of several phones ringing throughout the house, but his attention is still wrapped up in his child. She doesn't look quite as pale as before, but she never woke up for the whole trip and that scares him.

He places her in the middle of a circle made of ancient symbols, drawn in herbs and salt. There are hundreds of candles scattered around the room. He thinks Missouri says something reassuring, but Dean's too busy watching Mer's chest move steadily up and down in deep, even breaths.

"Dean!" Missouri raps him sharply on the head. He stares stupidly at her. "Pamela and I are going to try and see if we can reach Mer. You are going to sit here and freak out inside your own head and _not_ try to interfere, you hear?" Dean nods stupidly, not bothering to tell her his powers are shot to hell.

"Who's Pamela?" Dean blurts belatedly.

"Strong and silent works for you," the woman Dean hadn't recognized says from across the room. "You should consider keeping that up. Maintain the illusion." Oh. That must be Pamela. The woman snorts. "Must be." Her sardonic quips remind him of Whit and it feels like someone's plunged a knife into a preexisting wound and wiggled it around. Pamela looks at him with pity in her eyes and Dean scowls at her, turning his attention deliberately back to Mer.

She's going to be fine because she has to be. She doesn't get a choice in this. Dean needs her to be okay because he can't deal with both her _and_ Sam falling off the cliff.

Missouri and Pamela start chanting and Dean settles in to wait.

Castiel is exhausted. It's delicate work putting a human psyche back together. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many ways to put it together incorrectly. Since Mary excised the source it's all a matter of rooting out the taint one bit at a time.

"I'd rather not be a sociopath." There's also Mary's penchant for looking over his shoulder and, as Anael calls it, 'backseat driving.' She's doing better, though, and Castiel feels a measure of pride that Mer no longer shifts personas depending on her moods and emotions. She's becoming a truly unified personality under their care, knitting together as they erase the taint from Sam's influence and heal the wounds Whitney's death left behind. Anael is taking care of unraveling Mer's dependence on Dean, a task Castiel does not envy.

"No really, please tell me you're not trying to route my perceptions _entirely_ through the logic centers of my brain."

"I would invite you to take over, but I believe you lack the necessary power and ability."

"Not to mention the dickish attitude," Mary chirps pleasantly. She's a combination of her teenage self and someone caustically playful. She tells harsh truths with jokes and seems to delight in being crude. Castiel stifles his annoyance. "You know you ruffle your wings when you're irritated." She sounds entirely too gleeful and Castiel hears the soft susurrous of his wings, followed by Mary's deeply amused laughter. She mutters something that sounds like "angel tell" but it makes no sense so Castiel endeavors to ignore her.

He does split Mary's _perceptions_ —an incredibly generic, broad, over generalized description of a very complex bundle of mental functions that grant Mary higher reasoning—through her emotional and ethical centers as well. (Even though he's thoroughly convinced Mary Winchester _will never actually use_ her higher reasoning skills if her current behavior is an indication of future behavior.) Her mind unfurls, and the sickening darkness recedes as Mer finds more of herself and is able to police her mind on her own.

"Hmmmmm," Mary hums, eyes closed. When she looks at him again, Castiel can tell his efforts have not been in vain. He can see green in her eye again and the spider web of taint is shrinking as well. She no longer cycles through facets of her personality. "You know, Angel Dude, there may be hope for you yet." Castiel detects a certain amount of fondness there and that worries him for reasons he can't quite pin down.

Missouri struggles to keep her eyes open as she draws her mind back to herself. She has to talk to Dean before she can succumb to the bone-deep exhaustion that's settled into her bones. Mer's hurt, bad. Far more than Missouri can heal. Fact is, Missouri doubts there are even a handful of people in this world that could fix what's been broken in Mer. Luckily, Mer's one of them, and she'll take care of herself in due time, but it's going to take just that—time. For the moment, she's buried so far in herself and set up such thick shields that it exhausted them both to even confirm she was there at all.

Missouri pauses when she hears it again: a strange resonance from Mer, like the fading echo of a ringing bell. She's never heard or felt anything like it before. Maybe Mer has help. The thought warms Missouri's heart and she smiles.

"You see it too then?" Pamela smiles tiredly at her from across the bed.

"See it? No. I hear it, though. It sounds like..."

"Silver," Pam finishes. Missouri smiles. Silver sounds about right. Pamela smoothes Mer's hair back and lets herself out of the room. Missouri rouses Dean, who spent the last few hours zoned out and staring unseeingly at Mer.

"She's going to be fine, Dean," Missouri says tiredly, putting a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder as he jumps. "Let Bobby sit with her a pace; we need to talk." Dean looks from her to Mer and back, clearly trying to decide whether or not he should leave. Missouri fixes him a look because that was not a request.

She fixes them tea—no coffee, Dean needs to sleep—and waits until Dean drinks one whole cup before she talks. He makes faces the whole time, but Missouri will not be moved in this.

"Mer's going to be fine," Missouri reiterates, because sometimes it takes a few times to get through to Dean.

"I can't feel her," Dean counters. "She's kept me out, but it's never felt like this before."

"She's not doing it." Dean shoots her a scornful look and Missouri wishes she had her spoon on her. Dean knows better than to be that literal. "Consciously," she corrects. "She's hurt bad right now and she's gone to ground. Pulled everything in to protect herself."

"She doesn't need protecting from me!" Dean explodes.

"Dean," Missouri says patiently. "She just lost two of her grounding points. She's got no defenses against _anyone._ " Dean glares at her and Missouri gives it right back. He can only hold her gaze for a few minutes before he seems to crumble, folding in on himself.

"She's leaving me," Dean says, voice sounding small. "Whatever connects us together—I can feel her changing, Missouri. She's not going to need me anymore." Missouri sighs sadly and pats Dean on the head.

"Hon, that's called growing up."

Anael studies the smooth exterior of the watchtower—Mer's version of Dean Winchester. There's no break in the surface, nothing but shiny, reflective glass that swirls with colors. Occasionally a memory plays underneath the glass, like a clip from a television show. Mer as a giggling three-year-old; Mer in tears over something; Dean and Sam sharing a look over the dinner table, oblivious to everything else. Anael has spent the past eighteen years watching the Winchesters and she can see Dean's soul reflected in the eddies of this place.

The tower is impenetrable. There are no handholds on the outside, no turrets—just miles and miles of faultless glass.

"I need to get in," she says aloud. "You have to let me do this." Nothing happens. If Mary truly cannot let her father go then they are doomed. Anael leans her forehead against the tower. It's warm to the touch and vibrates with life. She reaches out with her Grace and brushes against the tower. A clear bell-tone sounds, the purest sound she's heard outside of the Host.

A thin hair-line crack appears. It spreads and forms the shape of a door. Anael sets her sword against it and levers outward. The door does not open. She tries again, putting the full weight of her form against it, using all the strength at her disposal. The door grudgingly yields a few inches, screeching against the ground in protest.

She forces the door enough to slip in and enters a paradise. There is a glade behind the Winchester's house, abutting a pond and overgrown with foliage, where the sunlight is always gentle. This is a recreation of that place, one of Mary's favorite havens where she spent many lazy summer days with Finn. The only difference is the tree that has taken root in the very center of the glade, strong and imposing. Thick roots, bigger than her vessel's torso, disappear into the ground. The tree feels ancient and immortal because Dean is the first thing Mer knew and he has never not been there.

Anael kneels at the base of the tree and reverently digs her hands and her Grace into the soil. She gently separates the ground from the roots, excising Dean from Mer. When she gets far enough down it becomes harder because there are roots also growing _up,_ the parts of Mer that reach for Dean in times of stress and all the little things he's taught her without even knowing. They tangle in with Dean and make Anael's job more difficult for all that she's happy to see them. There are parts of Dean Winchester his daughter is blessed to have and know.

Anael spares a thought for the roots that had grown up to meet Sam and how much damage Mer may have done to herself by so carelessly ripping him from her mind. But what's done is done, and she doesn't have time to spare thinking about what might have been.

It's tedious work uprooting Dean. Anael is almost certain she's missed parts; others are so intricately interwoven with Mer she can't safely separate them. They'll either pull lose or they'll stay. But she's done what she can to mitigate the damage.

She sits back on her heels and studies her work.

"You're not going to lose him," Anael says softly. Mer materializes beside her, a child of five, green eyes staring upwards. She clutches a beaten, well-loved bear to her chest. "He'll be there when you wake up."

"Won't be the same," the little girl whispers.

"Nothing ever is." Anael starts when she feels a small hand grasp her own.

"Will it hurt?"

"I don't know," she says helplessly.

"Oh." Mer looks at the tree again. A stiff breeze begins blowing. It builds strength, quickly becoming a strong wind and then a gale. Anael's hair whips around her face but Mer remains untouched. "That's okay. Sometimes it's better not to know."

The tree sways dangerously and groans as it pulls free of the ground around it.

Mer really doesn't want to wake up, but there's this mosquito buzzing in her ear and it won't go away.

Her eyes slide open and the light hurts. Everything is fuzzy around the edges. Nausea rises in her and she gags. Hands turn her over and guide her head. She tastes something acidic and disgusting and her stomach heaves. It hurts, so bad. She's got nothing to throw up but her body's trying anyways. When the wracking pains subside those hands—familiar, she thinks distantly, thickly—tuck her back under the warm covers. Too warm, even though she's freezing cold.

"I'm here, baby girl," a voice says in her ear. "I'm here, and you'll be fine." She trusts that voice, reaches for that voice but it's not there.

"Go back to sleep." She floats down into blackness, confident that he'll be there to catch her.

\---

Mer wakes up fully two days later. She gazes at the ceiling. She knows this ceiling. She knows this place. Mer tries to sit up but the world swims around her. Her head feels tender. The world is a much better place with her eyes closed.

"How do you feel?" Mer's eyes snap open and she focuses on the foot of her bed. Anael and Castiel are watching her with careful scrutiny. Mer instinctively reaches for her father but he's not there anymore. Neither is Atta or Whit. She's alone in her head for the first time she can ever remember.

She turns her face away, trying to keep the tears from falling and find her center. This is...this is like when Viv got her own room and no longer had to share with her sister, right? It's exciting and grown up to have your own space...privacy. No more irritating pings when she's out, she can skip school without anyone knowing... Except Whit's gone, Uncle Sam wants her dead, and Mer can't imagine her dad's in good shape.

A cold hand brushes against her forehead and Mer's burgeoning panic fades away. She can breathe easier and even her head feel a little better. When she feels in control she turns back to her guardian angels. Anael looks sympathetic, sitting on the edge of her bed. Castiel's still hovering at the foot board, looking at her like she's a particularly incomprehensible specimen of humanity.

"You know," Mer says, her voice hoarse, "you never did tell me why you hate Hannah so much."

"Hannah and I didn't get along," Anael says dryly. Mer blinks.

"Like... _the_ Hannah? Mother of Samuel?"

"Saul, actually," Anael corrects. "Some things got confused in the sixth century. She was a bitch."

"Anael!" Castiel exclaims in horror. Mer stifles a laugh at the look on his face, and Anael grins at her, the expression hidden from the other angel.

 _He's new to this rebellion thing,_ Anael's voice says in Mer's mind. _Still learning._

"Rebellion?" Mer blurts, eyes wide. Anael's expression turns serious and Castiel goes even more stoic and blank.

"Mary, there are some things we need to tell you."

They all get the summons at the same time, an un-ignorable impulse to go find Mer _right now._ Dean bursts into her room, gun drawn, followed closely by Bobby and his favorite shotgun.

"That...was not the response I was going for," Mer says, eyes wide.

"You okay?" Dean asks, gun trained distrustfully on the windows as he comes alongside her bed. He trusts Bobby has his back.

"For a certain value of okay," Mer sighs. "Please put the guns away?" Bobby harrumphs and breaks his shotgun. Dean lowers his weapon but doesn't put it away yet. Something's off. He just doesn't know what.

"Good to see you up, Sea Monkey," Bobby says. Mer smiles at him.

"You too, Uncle Bobby." Mer suddenly turns and glares at...nothing. Dean's anxiety ratchets up a notch.

"Dad. You remember Hannah?" Mer asks. She sounds...annoyed.

"Hannah?" Dean tries to place the name amongst Mer's friends. He works his way backwards, but he can't place the name. There was a Hannah Abernathey in sixth grade, but she hadn't been Mer's friend. Not in elementary school, either. Before that was the period of...no. No way. "Hannah. Your...invisible friend, Hannah?" Mer opens her mouth, thinks better of it, and shrugs sheepishly.

"You may call me Anna," a woman says crossly, appearing out of thin air. Dean has his gun leveled on her before she's finished talking.

"That's not going to help," Mer says wearily. "This is Anael. She's an angel." Dean stares unflinchingly at the red-headed woman.

"Of the Lord," Anael adds. A man pops into existence beside her. "Castiel and I are here to help you stop the Apocalypse."

"Oh," Dean says. "Good to know we've got Heaven on our side." It's a weak attempt at a joke, but he's still stuck on _angel of the freaking Lord._

"You don't understand," Anael says gravely. "We're the only angels on your side."

They chose the warehouse for its space. The ground is covered in ancient symbols of power, painted with the blood of virgins, dark and foreboding. They pulse with power. A hundred demons stand at the outermost edge of the sanctified space.

Alistair carries Sam's limp body to the center of the circle and lays him down with uncharacteristic tenderness. With a knife, Alistair cuts off Sam's clothes, careful not to leave any marks. He takes the remnants with him as he retreats to the exterior of the circle. His part is done. This is Lilith's show now, and she's always been a fan of grand displays.

Lilith makes her entrance dressed in a Christening gown, a light pink bow in her hair. She plays hopscotch through the symbols, acutely aware of every eye watching her. Even the invisible ones. She hums and giggles as she paces the circle, spiraling in towards Sam. A few demons stir restlessly, wondering what's taking her so long. Alistair growls at them and they all cower. Idiots. If they can't see that Lilith's charging the circle and checking all the symbols then he's certainly not going to inform them.

Lilith reaches the last symbol and her humming abruptly stops. There's a sense of anticipation as she stands before Sam, one foot poised over the edge.

Lilith steps into the center circle and her eyes snap open, glowing a dull white. The ground around them trembles with power. Ley lines glimmer, crossing directly under Sam's unconscious body. The demons around the circle start to chant and funnel their power into the runes. When they're done this land will be charred and tainted; nothing will grow here for millennia.

"We will call him Samael," Lilith laughs, head tilted back and arms raised to the sky. She's still laughing as she slits her host's throat with her fingernails and the child's demon-tainted blood anoints Sam, their Chosen, their Harbinger. The ichor of the newly born seals him to their service. Lilith's power pulses into the symbols beneath her feet, winding up and into Sam. She screams as she gives her life to her Master's plan.

Lilith dies and Samael wakens with a gasp.

Muscles jerk under the onslaught of power, tense and unyielding. Hazel eyes look up at the sky, lost and scared, before they're eaten up by black. The black fades to red, then flickers through yellow, white, and a sickly green before settling into a very human hazel. The man at the center of the circle rises, muscles rippling. He takes his first breath.

"Hello, Samael," Alistair greets.

A twisted smile steals over Sam's face. He stands slowly, testing his body as if it's the first time he's really felt it. Alistair can feel the power humming beneath his skin. The demons he's assembled, the beginnings of an army, murmur amongst themselves. They've been waiting for him a long time, their Harbinger. The one who will awaken Lucifer and turn the Earth to ash.

Samael looks at him, eyes burning with darkness visible.

"I want Dean," he growls, and the world around him shudders.

 

 **Epilogue**

“You must leave. Now.” The warning comes three days after Dean feels something in his soul shudder and snap. When Mer came running into the room, eyes wide, the only thing Dean could do was open his arms and hang on as hard as he could. They'd told Bobby Sam was gone and he didn't press them for details.

Anael and Castiel watch them with impatient eyes. Bobby convinces Castiel to angel away almost all of his books for safekeeping.

“MER!” Dean takes the steps two and a time. “Mer we have to—” Mer's sitting amongst the contents of Whit's suitcase. Shirts and pants laid out around her. A clip sparkles in her hair, one Dean remembers giving Whit years and years ago. Pain wells up in him and his vision blurs.

“Anna.” Dean clears his throat and starts over. “We have to go.”

“I know,” Mer says. She leaves most of the clothes spread on the bed, but she pulls on an old, threadbare sweatshirt Whit had loved. The sight chokes him up all over again. “I'm ready.”

Dean's been vaguely aware of people joining them as they work their way through the States, trying to find a safe place to regroup and figure out what the hell they should do now. But all the new people, Bobby's network of contacts for the most part, haven't really registered with him. He's been too busy drinking himself into a stupor. The Apocalypse. The fucking Apocalypse, and the angels had allowed it to happen. Watched as Sam slowly went dark side without saying anything or stepping in to stop it. Let Whit _die._ Dean takes another drink.

"Dad." Dean glances at his daughter and pours himself another shot. He has no idea how to talk to his kid. She's harder these days, less prone to smile and joke. Whit would know what to do, how to get Mer to open up about what's going on with her.

Mer sits beside him in silence and stares over the desolate parking lot. She doesn't lean into him for comfort or ask him for reassurance. Dean wants to scream. Wants to yell at her, ask if she misses Sam, her Atta, or if she's decided that the formative years of her life mean nothing compared to the few years she and Sam were fighting. He _hates_ this new Mer for a second. The quiet in his mind is almost too much to bear. Mer's shields are no longer welcoming to him. He has to ask her to let him in. No more pings and check-ins. He's left without anything to distract himself from the holes Sam and Whit have left.

“I've been thinking,” Mer says. Dean takes another shot. When he pours another, Mer snatches it from him and downs it like a pro. She grimaces and puts the shot glass on the ground. Dean's paternal instincts make a half-hearted attempt to protest. He drowns them with more whisky.

“I've been trying not to,” Dean admits. The alcohol isn't working fast enough, isn't working at all. Mer reaches out and grabs his hand, keeping it from the bottle, her eyes suspiciously bright.

"About that flash. You know.” Oh, Dean knows. Will never forget the moment he felt what was left of his Sam turn into complete, unrelenting evil. When Mer speaks it takes Dean a moment to place the tone; it's the way Dad used to talk about tracking down the YED. “They did this to him. That last thing, that wasn't _him_ , you know? That was...I think there's a part of him still in there that they had to hide. Or kill. Or something. I think there's something of Atta left. And I think. I think if there's anything left to save, we're going to save it."

Dean feels his eyes sting. His first instinct is to deny it. They're Winchesters, good things don't happen to them. He's about to say it, the words on the tip of his tongue, but when he looks at Mer he sees beyond the fierce front she's put on. She's scared and grieving and out of her depth. She's a kid looking to her father for some sign of how to proceed. And they're Winchesters, goddamn it, they don't give up on their own.

“What the hell,” Dean says hoarsely. “It's not like they've got angels on their side.” Mer lets out a breath that's a sob and Dean hugs her tight. Because maybe he needs something to believe in too and if there's any part of Sam left who else would be able to find it? Dean feels the spark of hope and purpose take hold.

“We should take your new lease on life and go rally the troops,” Mer says after she composes herself. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry and Dean feels a feather-light brush of solidarity.

"Yeah, let's get the War Council started," Dean agrees.

"Just as long as you don't start fights in the War Room," Mer teases, bumping their shoulders together. Dean manages a wan smile at their weak attempt for normalcy.

There are more Hunters gathered in Bobby's extra-large motel room than Dean has ever seen in one place, even in the Roadhouse. They all regard him with deep, serious expressions. These are lifers, the people who have a calling like Dean's dad did. They're the ones who will keep going until it kills them, and they fully expect that to be any day. Dean used to be one of them. Before Mer and Whit. Before Sam. Dean flinches but doesn't let the grief overwhelm him.

Bobby stands before them, grave and serious.

"I'm not going to waste words here. Y'all know that something Big's happening. You've seen signs and portents everywhere. Well, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Apocalypse. You're first string defense and special teams for Team Save the World.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Betas:** carinas_carinae, holytaxaccntnt, creepylicious


End file.
